


Fugit Inreparabile Tempus

by RisalSoran



Category: A Stitch in Time - Andrew J. Robinson, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alcohol, Claustrophobia, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Post-Episode: s04e26 Broken Link, Star Trek: Just in Time Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 45,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29240187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisalSoran/pseuds/RisalSoran
Summary: “It escapes, irretrievable Time.” -VirgilThe perception of time is not universal. Sometimes it seems to fly; sometimes it seems to creep along ever so slowly. Regardless of the perception, barring exceptional circumstances, once it has passed, it cannot be retrieved. Whether it be a few extra minutes for Garak to gain control of quantum torpedo launchers to annihilate the Founders and save the Alpha Quadrant from the Dominion, or the time for Odo to truly feel he understands and belongs to his people before they force him into the body of a Solid, or simply enough time in the days to accomplish everything one wishes to accomplish, the denizens of DS9 are no strangers to the effects of lost time.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 15
Collections: Star Trek: Just in Time Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The main events in this story take place during and just after “Broken Link”. Some dialogue is from that episode. 
> 
> Written for the Star Trek: Just in Time Fest

_That could have gone better,_ Garak thought. He lay on his back where Worf had thrown him, trying to catch his breath and wondering why his implant wasn't working. He started to reach for the activator in its hidden pocket within his sleeve before he remembered the implant was gone.

Doctor Bashir deactivated it almost two years ago.

 _Well. That is unfortunate._ The implant caused quite a lot of discomfort at the end, but for years it made the immediate aftermath of physical combat much more tolerable.

Without the implant, he found the throbbing in his head and the ache along his side and back quite unpleasant. The chill of the metal flooring against his unprotected hands was unpleasant as well.

Worf stepped into his range of vision and loomed over him, revolving slowly.

In fact, the entire room seemed to be revolving.

 _Now that is an interesting, and rather unpleasant, phenomenon_ , Garak thought. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the Klingon and the room remained still.

“Do you require medical attention?” Worf asked.

“I do not. I am perfectly fine,” Garak said. _You would be more convincing if you were upright,_ he told himself. Carefully, he pushed himself up. The room spun disconcertingly for a moment, but he attained a nearly vertical position, leaning only slightly against the closest wall.

“You should go to Sickbay,” Worf said. “You do not look well.”

“What I should do is finish my work,” Garak deflected.

“Your work?” Worf scoffed. “You were attempting to sabotage the _Defiant's_ weapons systems. That is not work.”

“On the contrary! Taking control of the quantum torpedo launch controls is not at all easy to do. It certainly qualifies as work.” Unfortunately, it was work he could not complete.

He was unarmed, and, in his current condition, he could not defeat Worf through physical combat.

His only option was to convince Worf of the merits of Tain's plan, which at the moment seemed quite unlikely.

Garak shifted away from the wall and assumed a more upright stance. “You are a Klingon, Mr. Worf,” he said, trying not to cringe at the obviousness of the opening to his argument – a mere restatement of a previously-made point. _You must do better than that,_ he chided himself. “You value your honor,” he tried again. “There is no honor in allowing the Dominion to muster its forces and invade the Alpha Quadrant.”

To Garak's surprise, Worf offered a very slight nod.

He was listening.

Garak paused to catch his breath. “You and I have an opportunity to destroy the Founders,” he said at last. “If the Founders are gone, the Dominion will collapse. If we do nothing, they will send their fleet through the wormhole. They will annihilate everything! They will start with the Cardassian Union, or perhaps they will start with Terok – that is to say, Deep Space Nine. If it takes any action against the Dominion. How long do you – ”

“There is no evidence that the Dominion is planning an invasion,” Worf interrupted. “However, I am certain the Captain will order increased surveillance both in the Gamma Quadrant and near the wormhole in the Alpha Quadrant.” Worf narrowed his eyes. “Now. Will you go to Sickbay or return to your quarters?”

“I will do neither,” Garak snapped. He would not give up so easily. “Commander, it is ... _imperative_ that – ”

“We will not attack the Founders or their homeland!”

“Commander, the Founders must be stopped _before_ they enter the Alpha Quadrant!”

“I will not allow you to start a war,” Worf growled.

“The war has already started! The Dominion has destroyed every Cardassian and Romulan ship in the Gamma Quadrant! They plan to annihilate Cardassia. And surely you are aware that the Federation is missing several ships that were last seen in the Gamma Quadrant. The Dominion may have destroyed them as well!”

“There is no evidence of the destruction of any Federation ships.” 

“Perhaps. But there is also no evidence that the Dominion did _not_ destroy Federation ships.”

“At this time, the war you speak of is between the Dominion and the Cardassian and Romulan empires. _Not_ the Federation.”

“Yes, at the moment. But, consider. _If_ a Dominion invasion fleet comes through the wormhole to annihilate Cardassia, it will pass Deep Space Nine, which may be interpreted as a threat to the Federation. The Federation will get involved. The Klingon Empire … will get … involved. And Cardassia is … already … involved.” Garak paused again to catch his breath. The room was starting to spin again.

Garak put a hand on the wall behind him. The room did not still, but the contact was sufficient to allow him to retain his balance.

“The _Defiant_ is a Starfleet ship, _not_ a Cardassian ship,” Worf was saying. “I am a Klingon, but I am also a Starfleet officer.”

Well. Apparently he was not the only one resorting to the repetition of previously-made arguments.

“If a Starfleet ship destroyed the Founders' homeland, the remaining Founders would see that action as an act of war,” Worf continued. “So would the Vorta and the Jem'Hadar. The Dominion would hold Starfleet and the Federation accountable for any acts of aggression taken against them by this ship.” He shook his head. “There is nothing you or I can do at this time. Now, you must go to Sickbay or return to your quarters. Choose.”

Garak did not answer.

He could continue the argument, but he knew it would be to no avail.

He could not complete Tain's mission.

He had failed.

Again.

Tain would not be surprised.

“ _Now_ , Garak,” Worf insisted, gesturing impatiently down the corridor.

“Thank you, Commander. I do know the way,” Garak said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Unfortunately, the corridor was no more cooperative than the room. In fact, its spinning was noticeably worse. Garak reached out and trailed a hand along the wall. That helped, a little. Enough to allow him to reach the despised quarters he had successfully avoided for almost the entire duration of the mission.

He stopped at the threshold and looked gloomily inside.

The room had not improved since he was last there. It was small and unfurnished other than a single chair in front of the computer terminal – its sole amenity – and a pair of the recessed shelves Doctor Bashir called “bunk beds”, though they did not at all resemble suitable sleeping places. Perhaps the term referred to the cargo beds in the ground transport vehicles in some of the Doctor's holosuite programs.

 _Focus, Garak_ , he told himself. He turned his attention to the computer terminal.

Colors swirled around the screen.

Good. After his vision cleared and after Worf left the room, he would be able to communicate with Cardassia. He could keep himself apprised of what was going on.

Worf walked to the computer terminal and typed in a command Garak could not see from where he stood.

The screen went dark.

_Ah. Perhaps not._

Without another word, Worf turned and left. The door slid shut behind him.

Garak looked out the small window. One Starfleet security officer stood outside, her phaser drawn, the yellow and black of her uniform and brown of her hair swirling before the slowly rotating gray walls.

The colors in the room were beginning to swirl about as well, exacerbating the spinning. It was becoming rather unbearable.

Garak slid to the floor and leaned against the wall. He sat there, watching the kaleidoscopic colors of the rotating room, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath, and opening his eyes to watch the colors again.

Eventually, the colors solidified and the room stilled.

Cautiously, he pushed himself up.

The pain in his head was almost unbearable, but the room remained steady.

Garak approached the computer terminal and attempted to activate it.

Nothing. The screen remained dark, the indicator light unlit.

He had a padd, but no way to connect it to the station's system. He had no communicator; only the currently inactive universal translator hidden in a panel within his tunic.

He could not send even the simplest of messages to Cardassia, directly or indirectly.

All he could do was wait for news of Cardassia's annihilation.

“ _They're dead. You’re dead. Cardassia is dead. Your people were doomed the moment they_ _attacked us. I believe that answers your question._ ”

The words of the Founder echoed interminably in his head, interspersed with flashes of what he should have done. A few simple commands, flashes of light, and the Founders would have been annihilated.

Cardassia would have been safe.

Of course, Bashir, Odo, and Captain Sisko would have been killed, too.

That was unfortunate, but it was an acceptable loss, considering what their sacrifice would have done. It would have enabled him to save Cardassia and the entire Alpha Quadrant.

The Jem'Hadar would have responded instantly. They certainly had ships near the Founders' homeworld. It would have taken only a few metrics before the first ship arrived, and only a few more after that before they destroyed the _Defiant_ and killed him and everyone else aboard.

Just like they did with Tain's fleet.

Just like they did with Tain.

“You do not know that,” Garak said aloud.

The Founder told him that _he_ was dead, but the excruciating pain in his head, the sharp stabbing discomfort of every breath, and the more subtle, but equally unavoidable, pains in his side and back belied her words. Her words may have been nothing more than an empty threat, or perhaps a tangible threat of intended future actions.

Or was there truth in some of what she said?

Did the Dominion actually destroy the entire Cardassian fleet?

Was Tain already dead?

The room shifted again. This time, the movement was accompanied by the slight vibration that indicated acceleration to warp.

Garak reached out a hand to steady himself against the computer terminal, but the ship itself had already steadied. Only a faint vibration remained to indicate that the ship was traveling at a moderate warp speed.

There was nothing to tell him if the Jem'Hadar were following. Perhaps dozens of their ships were mere seconds away, fully armed.

He had no way to know. No possibility of a warning, not unless the entire ship were put on alert.

There had been no warning on Tzenketh, either. Nothing until the rumble of approaching impulse engines, followed almost immediately by the deafening roar of the explosion, the rattling sound of walls collapsing around him, the dull pain of a chunk of cut stone hitting his head with enough force to knock him down.

More stone, hitting his head, his hand, his arms, forcing him down even as he struggled to rise.

Thick dust filling the air, choking him.

The weight of stone pressing on him, holding him in place. Barely enough of an opening in the rubble to allow some exchange of air, and to allow him to see the fall and rise of the sun as the days and nights passed.

“This is not Tzenketh,” Garak said aloud. He scowled, disgusted by the tremor in his voice.

He forced himself to slow his breathing, trying to regain control. “This is not Tzenketh,” he said again.

Better. His voice was still quiet, but loud enough to hear, and the tremor was essentially gone.

“The walls are not stone. They will not collapse.”

Of course that would not increase his chances of survival in an attack by the Jem'Hadar.

But death would come quickly. It would not be preceded by endless hours pinned beneath layers of stone, trying to breathe the thick, dusty air beneath the rubble, unable to move, listening to the pounding of shifting stone as the rescue crews cleared away layer after layer.

“This is not Tzenketh!” Garak insisted. “You're in the Gamma Quadrant. Far from Tzenketh.” 

Tzenketh had been a horrible experience for _him,_ but the Jem'Hadar posed a much greater threat.

They could have a fleet en route to Cardassia already, just a few metrics away from Cardassia Prime.

His homeland could be obliterated any moment, and he would not know.

All of his sources of information were cut off.

He had no access to computers or communications.

He did not have so much as a viewport or a viewscreen.

“This is completely unacceptable,” he said aloud. He glanced at the computer terminal. It was still dark. _Obviously._

His next course of action was equally obvious.

Garak knelt in front of the computer terminal and peered at the panels beneath.

 _Yes._ There was a slight indentation at the edge of one of the panels.

He stood, leaning on the computer's work station until the room steadied, and crossed the room to the storage compartment beneath the so-called beds.

He paused to catch his breath and wait for the spinning to stop. The throbbing in his head was becoming quite unbearable. Garak tried to ignore it. He reached into the compartment for his portable sewing kit and froze, his attention fixed on the medical kit beside it.

He fully intended to pick up the sewing kit, but his hands reached for and opened the other kit instead. There wasn't much inside: bandages, a small portable dermal regenerator, tweezers, a hypospray, a few vials of common medications.

And a vial of triptacederine.

 _Coming off that dreadful substance once was quite enough. You do_ not _need that_ , he told himself fiercely, shaking his head.

The spinning worsened considerably.

Garak closed his eyes and waited for it to stop.

When he opened his eyes again, the room was still spinning. The pain in his head was getting worse. It was making him nauseous.

“You have no choice, Garak,” he muttered. “You have work to do, and you cannot work like this.”

His hands were unsteady, but he managed to get the vial open and load the hypospray. He adjusted the dosage; it had been months since he had taken any triptacederine, so he would not need a full dose. Ten cc would suffice. Garak raised the hypospray and injected it.

The drug took effect quickly. The pain and nausea faded enough to relegate to the background. Breathing was still difficult, but it hurt less.

Garak replaced the medical kit in the storage compartment, took out his portable sewing kit, and removed the knife from its hidden compartment.

Back at the panel, he forced the blade into the indentation and shifted it around until he felt the latch release. He pulled, and the panel popped out, exposing an array of cables and connectors. He knelt down, reached inside, and got to work.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come, Odo. It's time,” the other changeling said.

Odo turned and followed her to the rippling sea of the Great Link.

He was ready to accept their judgment.

No changeling had ever killed another, before him.

He had not had any real choice. The changeling threatened the crew of the _Defiant._

They were his colleagues, and his charges. He was responsible for their safety. The only way to ensure their safety had been to cause the death of the other changeling.

Odo had dedicated his life to justice for almost as long as he could remember.

He would not shirk his responsibility now, simply because it was he who stood accused.

He reached the edge between the rocky island and the swirling golden sea, and stepped in.

Vague impressions of sensation and thought surrounded him, becoming stronger as he entered further.

It was almost overwhelming, for someone accustomed to only his own sensations and thoughts, but it was not entirely unfamiliar.

Odo submerged himself, stretched his matrix out of the confinement of his humanoid form, and opened himself to the sensations and thoughts of the Great Link.

An overwhelming sensation of curiosity, welcome, and family/community encompassed him, but almost immediately, he noticed that the sensation was not the same as it had been the first time he encountered the Great Link.

 _This_ welcome lacked that encounter's harmony.

It was discordant.

Amidst the sea of welcome and curiosity, other sensations made themselves known.

Worry and distrust. Fear. Grief.

Confusion.

Anger.

Even as he noticed the difference, the discordance began to increase.

The joyful welcome and the sensations of belonging and family/community faded away, leaving a sea of distrust, anger, and grief, mitigated only slightly by curiosity.

“It is time.”

Odo couldn't tell whether the somewhat awkward Bajoran words were spoken aloud, but he had no difficulty understood the meaning.

The gently probing tendrils of curiosity he remembered acquired a sharper edge. They condensed into a rapid series of questions. The questions came too fast to truly understand or respond to, but neither understanding nor response mattered now.

The Great Link had entered his mind directly.

He could watch. He could observe.

But his volition and individuality were gone.

He sensed his own memories floating around, but they seemed distant. Nothing to do with him.

Awakening in a small container in a laboratory, constantly observed and studied.

Learning to sense the location, orientation, mass, and movement of every iota of his own protoplasm.

Beginning to identify the sensations of pain and fear as the probe jolted electricity through him, again and again.

Developing the ability to effect change. Becoming a container, a block of wood, a glass.

Recognizing that certain sensations – sounds – incorporated meaning.

Beginning to understand the meaning of individual words, at first, followed by simple phrases, and, later, more complex language. Learning, much later, to take on humanoid form, including the mouth and voice box that allowed for spoken communication.

Learning to produce sounds. Words. Sentences.

Communicating, at first with Dr. Mora; later, with others.

Going to Terok Nor and beginning his work as a security officer there. Learning Kardasi and the rudiments of the Ferengi language. Arguing with Quark and keeping his nefarious activities in check.

Becoming the Chief of Security of Terok Nor.

Time passing indeterminately.

A change in his apparent attire, a new language, a new name for the station.

Continuing to argue with Quark and keep his still nefarious activities in check.

Discussing the foibles of Federation and Starfleet personnel with Garak.

Discussing each day's events with Major Kira.

More time passing.

Communication with more people of a variety of species: Kira, Quark, and Garak. Rom. Morn. Commander/Captain Sisko.

Nog and Jake.

Dax.

Worf.

Doctor Bashir.

Lwaxana Troi.

Commander Eddington.

Ambassador Krajensky.

Chalan Aroya.

An interminable cacophony of thought and sensation.

It was time.

He could sense the depth of thought and sensation surrounding him, but he could not fully access it. Glimpses of people flicked in and out of his awareness: Captain Sisko, the Founder, a Klingon warrior whose name eluded him.

The circumstance surrounding the Changeling's death.

Something was changing.

He didn't know what it was, but the sea of thought and sensation that had enveloped him seemed to be withdrawing. Fading.

Before long, it was all but gone. Only a single voice, and then another.

The sensation of dry land.

An odd new sensation: air moving through his nose and mouth, bringing with it some sort of incomprehensible sensory information. Yet, along with that new information, he felt a disconcerting sensation of diminished senses. He no longer felt the mass, location, or spatial orientation of every part of his protoplasm. His vision was limited to darkness.

He opened his eyes. Darkness gave way to the golds and browns of the sky and the rock above him, and a hint of black and red and turquoise and brown from the figures beside him. He could not visually sense what was behind him.

And then he understood. He could see only what was directly in front of and beside him. He was seeing with _eyes._

He was breathing by necessity, rather than volition.

He was listening to the soft susurration of the moving protoplasm in the Great Link behind him with ears.

He moved his head and noticed he had solidified without his uniform.

He attempted to re-form, to no avail.

He no longer had control of his protoplasm. He no longer _had_ protoplasm.

He was no longer a changeling.

The Founders had driven him out of the Great Link.

All that he had yet to learn about his people, all he failed to understand … all would remain to him unknown, misunderstood.

He would never be one of them.

They had made him a solid.


	3. Chapter 3

The door swished open.

Garak turned his head enough to see Worf step through the door, but he did not pause in his task. He reached for the next cable and shifted it into position.

“What are you doing?” Worf asked.

“Connecting a cable,” Garak replied as he did so. There was no need to obfuscate when the answer was so readily apparent.

Worf scowled. “That is obvious.”

“Indeed.” Garak did not pause or look up from the circuitry.

“Remove yourself from the access panel.”

“I intend to. I assure you I've no intention of remaining in this rather uncomfortable position any longer than I must.”

“You must not remain any longer.”

 _Was that a joke?_ Garak allowed himself a glance.

Worf was not smiling, but that was to be expected. However, he also did not seem particularly angry.

Garak connected the circuit and reached for the next cable.

“You will stop now!”

Garak released the cable just as Worf grabbed him by the arm and attempted to pull him away. He allowed himself to be pulled upright. As soon as Worf relaxed his grip, he twisted free.

Worf ignored that. “Replace it, Garak.”

“Certainly, Commander,” Garak said politely. He promptly crouched down and returned to the circuit he'd been working on.

Worf shifted his posture and raised his arm as if preparing to strike. _“Not_ the circuit. The _panel,”_ he growled.

Now he seemed angry.

Garak connected the next circuit. He heard a faint rustling sound as Worf pulled something out of a fabric covering. He looked up.

Worf stood beside him now, holding a phaser aimed directly at Garak's chest. “Replace the wall panel,” he demanded.

“I will not,” Garak replied. “Commander, I – ”

“Now,” Worf growled.

“I am not finished!” Garak protested.

“That does not matter. You have no business doing ...” he paused and glanced at the open panel. “Whatever it is you are doing.”

“Trying to activate the computer terminal, obviously. How else can I inform my people of the Founder's rather unwelcome words?”

“That is not necessary. Captain Sisko has sent a message to Deep Space Nine. Major Kira will contact Cardassia.”

“Major Kira,” Garak repeated incredulously. “Commander Worf, I cannot entrust the safety of my homeland to the rather slim likelihood that _Major Kira_ will warn _Cardassia_ of an impending attack. She would like nothing better than to witness the annihilation of my people!”

Worf frowned. “That is not true.”

 _Of course it is!_ Garak forced his expression and posture to remain impassive. Once he was certain his anger was suitably masked, he put on a bemused expression.

“Major Kira would be pleased to witness the defeat of _Gul Dukat._ She does not wish to witness the annihilation of an entire people. Not even your people. She _will_ contact Cardassia.”

“That is highly unlikely.” Unbidden, an image of Kira speaking with Legate Ghemor came to mind. She had not exhibited any of the fierce animosity he usually saw in her interactions with his people. She had been calm, and her demeanor had seemed oddly … accepting. Perhaps even affectionate.

He would not have believed her capable of that sort of interaction with any Cardassian, had he not witnessed it.

“But perhaps she will,” he acknowledged.

Worf gave a short nod. “She will. Now, replace the panel.” He held the phaser steady, but Garak noticed his finger twitch.

Garak sighed. The Klingon seemed a little too eager to use that phaser.

He glanced at the circuits he had been within minutes of completing, and replaced the panel.

“Good. Now, come with me.”

“May I ask where we are going?” Garak asked. He was quite certain that the destination would not be one he would have chosen.

“Sickbay.”

“I have no need to go there.”

“You cannot stay here. You have proven that you cannot be trusted to remain in custody within your quarters.”

“I _beg_ your pardon? I did not even _try_ to leave my quarters!”

Worf glared. “You attempted to gain control of the ship's systems, again! Garak, that is exactly why you are in my custody.”

“Ah. And since I cannot be trusted around the computer terminal in my quarters, you are bringing me to Sickbay, where surely I will be foiled in my attempts to gain access to the computer terminals by the vast number of armed guards stationed within.”

“You will not be able to access the computer system, or leave,” Worf replied. “Now, let us go.”

Garak hesitated. He disliked medical facilities at the best of times, which this most certainly was not.

He did not wish to have attention drawn to his injuries, and he was uncertain of the Klingon's intent.

Sickbay was not a holding cell. There was no reason he could not simply walk out when he wished to leave, unless guards were posted to prevent him from doing exactly that. Nor was there any reason he could not access the ship's computer systems from Sickbay, again, unless guards prevented him from doing so.

Worf raised his phaser again and deliberately aimed it at Garak's chest. “Let's go, Garak,” he repeated.

Garak raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. He turned toward the door and began walking towards the turbolift as steadily as possible. The drug was already wearing off, or perhaps the dose he had taken simply wasn't adequate to counteract the effects of exertion. By the time he reached Sickbay, he felt as if he'd just completed a complex exercise in the Mekar Wilderness at midday after drinking two entire bottles of cheap _kanar_ instead of water.

Garak stepped through the doorway and looked around.

The room was empty. Doctor Bashir was not there. No medical personnel were there. No security officers stood guard.

Just bio-beds, medical equipment, cabinets of hyposprays and medications, regenerators and other surgical tools. Perhaps enhancers as well. Probably not. Starfleet would probably disapprove of that particular tool. There was, after all, no use for it other than interrogations, and Starfleet would not want evidence lying around that they used such methods.

“Garak.” Worf gestured toward one of the bio-beds.

Evidence Starfleet did use such methods stood directly in front of him: an isotopic restraint. It lay open on the nearest biobed.

 _Ah. That's why he chose Sickbay,_ Garak thought inanely. He stared at it, unable to look away. An image of the dreary cell where he'd first encountered an enhancer, similarly restrained, flashed through his mind, followed by the inevitable sensation of the space closing in. His vision narrowed until he saw nothing but a whirl of charcoal, slate and taupe. His legs trembled like I'danian spice pudding on a moving turbolift.

 _Not now!_ he told himself. He forced himself to slow and deepen his breathing as much as possible.

“Garak. You should lie down,” Worf said.

Garak opened his eyes, which he hadn't remembered closing. A whirl of silver, red, black, and brown swirled in front of him. He blinked, and the colors coalesced into the solemn form of Worf, standing directly in front of him.

Involuntarily, he stepped back. “Commander, I must protest! I am not in need of medical attention. I do not need to lie down!”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to sabotage the weapons systems.”

“Of course I should have! What better time to think of the possibility of capture, restraint, and interrogation than while attempting to prevent the annihilation of one's people?” He took another step away. Three more and he would be out of the room.

“You will remain in Sickbay.”

“I will not!” Garak snarled, trying without any real success to draw up fury to counter the incipient panic.

“I do not wish to stun you, but I will if necessary. You will remain in Sickbay, and you will lie down.” Worf's voice deepened into a growl.

Garak stopped retreating, but he did not approach the bed.

Worf raised his phaser and deliberately aimed it. He stood far enough away that he would have no difficulty firing before Garak could knock the phaser aside. Close enough that there was no chance he would miss.

Garak sighed. “Very well.” He crossed the room and stood beside the cursed device.

Worf did not lower his phaser, but his stance relaxed just enough that Garak thought he might have a chance.

He turned towards Worf and charged.

Not fast enough.

A searing pain struck his chest, and the brightly lit room faded to gray. Garak's legs gave out, and he sank to the floor.

Everything faded to black.


	4. Chapter 4

Julian watched the golds and reds and browns of the Founders' planet swirl into nothingness whilst trying to ignore the disagreeable sensation of his body and mind and maybe his soul seeming to dissipate as well. His memories and self were fading … fading …

After an unquantifiable amount of time, he regained a vague sense of physical self, followed almost immediately by a return of his memories. Foremost among those were memories of the people of Teplan. The people he tried to help, but caused only pain – and the newborn baby, born healthy, with no sign of the Blight. The treatment had worked, but only as a fetal vaccine.

As his body solidified, new swirls of mostly gray, with a bright splash of turquoise, appeared and solidified into the forms of Jadzia, control panels, computer terminals, and the rest of the bridge of the _Defiant._

Beside him, Captain Sisko and Odo appeared and solidified as well.

Odo had not reverted to his shapeshifter self during transport.

Julian opened a panel, pulled a thermal blanket from the storage compartment behind, and offered it to him.

“Thank you,” Odo said. He quickly wrapped the blanket around himself.

“Status, Commander?” Captain Sisko asked.

Dax turned to the captain. “The ship's systems are operational, Captain. We're maintaining a geosynchronous orbit over the landing site. So are five Jem'Hadar ships, four hundred kilometers above our location. They're just watching us, I think. They haven't attempted to hail us.”

“All right,” Sisko said. “Doctor?”

“Yes?” Julian asked. He looked at Captain Sisko, who was looking at him expectantly. Julian wasn't entirely sure what expectation he was trying to communicate. _A status report on my research, perhaps? But I've just returned to the ship! I've not had time to return to my work!_

Sisko looked pointedly at Odo, and Julian belatedly understood his meaning. _Of course! Odo! He's asking me Odo's medical status. Is he healthy? Is he experiencing any adverse effects? Is he, in fact, a human now? Or a humanoid, perhaps. Or a solid. All of which he certainly seems to be._

“Doctor!” Sisko snapped.

“Yes, yes. Sorry. Odo, would you accompany me to Sickbay?”

Odo nodded. “Certainly.”

The door to the bridge swished open, and Worf walked through. His face was inscrutable, but his movement seemed stiff, as if he were in some discomfort or perhaps well-masked pain.

Julian reached for his medical bag and took out a scanner. His research could wait.

“Captain, I have confined Garak to Sickbay,” Worf said, ignoring Julian and his scanner.

Julian stopped mid-scan. “Why? What happened?”

Sisko looked at him disapprovingly.

Julian realized he shouldn't have spoken. Worf was reporting to Captain Sisko; he should have waited for him to reply.

Sisko shrugged and turned to Worf, evidently deciding to ignore Julian's faux pas.

Julian returned his attention to his scanner.

“He attacked me. I stunned him,” Worf said succinctly.

Scan complete, Julian looked over the results. Multiple contusions, but no serious injuries.

“Why would Garak attack you?” Sisko asked.

“I caught him trying to gain access to the launch controls for the quantum torpedoes. He said he intended to take control of the phaser banks as well.”

“Why?” Julian asked.

Sisko rolled his eyes.

“He planned to destroy the Founders' homeworld and eliminate their species,” Worf explained. “He attempted to convince me to assist him. I declined. He attacked me. I stopped him. He declined medical attention at that time. I confined him to his quarters. When I returned to check on him, I found him altering the wiring to his computer terminal. I then ordered him to go to Sickbay. He complied, reluctantly. When we arrived, he charged me. I chose to stun him rather than engage in additional combat at that time.”

“Sensible,” Sisko said.

“Captain, I should go.”

“By all means. Odo, go with the doctor. Have him examine you as well.”

“Of course,” Odo replied.

* * *

Sickbay was quiet, except for the distant hum of the ship's warp drive and the incessant buzzing of the lights, when Julian and Odo arrived a few minutes later.

Garak lay on Biobed 2. His eyes were closed, and a dark bluish-purple bruise beneath his left eye stood out against his pale skin. He was secured by both an isotropic restraint and a forcefield.

The room was otherwise empty of both patients and staff.

Julian directed Odo to the supply cabinets where the hospital garments were stored, and went to check on Garak.

“Garak? Can you hear me?” he asked.

Garak did not respond. His eyes remained closed, and he did not move.

Julian tapped the controls to activate the biobed's sensors.

The display lighted and, after a moment, shifted to reflect its new results.

The sensors showed vital signs that were normal for an adult Cardassian at rest or unconscious.

The biobed, unfortunately, lacked the sensitivity to distinguish between sleep and unconsciousness.

Julian picked up his medical tricorder and initiated a complete scan.

The device beeped its readiness within two minutes: Grade 2 concussion, extensive contusions on the head, face, and the right upper quadrant of the abdomen, hairline fractures of two right inferior transverse ribs; no damage to internal organs, no measurable blood loss, no other fractures, and unspecified damage to torso – no doubt a phaser burn, Julian realized. The scanner couldn't identify that under the layers of Garak's clothing.

Garak required treatment, and further testing to ascertain the extent of any neurological damage, but he was in no immediate danger.

“I'll be with you soon, Garak,” he said, though he knew Garak was unlikely to hear him.

“Odo? Are you ready?” Julian asked, turning to his other patient.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Julian cleaned his hands, re-set the medical tricorder, and ran a complete scan. “Everything looks good. According to this, you're a perfectly healthy adult human male.”

“Splendid,” Odo said sarcastically.

Julian grinned. “It could be worse. The tricorder could indicate that you're a dreadfully unhealthy Tribble. ”

Odo rolled his eyes.

Julian shrugged. “One more thing, Odo,” he said apologetically. He withdrew a hyposampler.

Odo nodded his consent.

Julian drew a vial of blood and shook it.

The blood responded as any liquid would; it moved about and settled to the bottom of the container after the container stilled.

There was no sign of solidification.

“Staring at it isn't going to make it change shape,” Odo said bitterly.

“True,” Julian acknowledged. “It's blood, all right. Not a trace of changeling protoplasm in your entire system. Type O negative, if you were wondering.”

“I'll be sure to remember that.”

Julian nodded. “Physiologically, you're completely human.”

“Except for my face,” Odo replied.

“Actually, your face is human as well, physiologically.” Julian held up the medical tricorder. “Your eyes and ears, for example, appear to be functionally human. Have your vision and hearing changed?”

Odo nodded. “My … vision has changed. My visual range is much smaller. I can only see directly in front of me, and to a lesser extend, slightly to the side.”

“Of course!” Julian replied, intrigued. “As a changeling, your entire body must have maintained a visual awareness of your surroundings. Now you're limited to what your eyes can see. What about your hearing?”

Odo sighed. “I'm … not sure. It is different.”

“That's understandable.” Julian realized that this experience must be … challenging for Odo. It wouldn't be scientifically fascinating to him, though it certainly was to Julian.

“...so it's not as … different,” Odo was saying.

Julian nodded. “It's only your appearance that differs from a typical human, then. I was wondering about that. Why they left it unchanged.”

Odo looked away. “They left it this way on purpose,” he said softly. “To make sure I'd never forget what I was. And what I've lost.”

“You could be right,” Julian said. “I am sorry, Odo. For your loss. If there's anything I can do, please let me know.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I … will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to be alone.”

“Of course.”

Odo crossed the room and left, walking somewhat stiffly, as if he were not quite accustomed to locomotion in his current human form.

“I'll be with you in just a moment, Garak,” Julian said, placing the vial in the reclaimer.

Garak did not respond.

 _That's odd. It's been over two hours. He should have regained consciousness by now._ Julian cleaned his hands and hurried over. “Garak? Can you hear me?” he asked.

Garak did not respond. His eyes were closed. His breathing was rapid, shallow, and slightly labored. The biobed monitor showed an elevated pulse and respiratory rate, but his blood oxygen saturation level was almost completely normal.

“You're in shock,” Julian said aloud. He shook his head. “That makes no sense!” Garak's injuries would be painful, of course, but none should be serious enough to induce shock. A medium stun setting, 3.4 or 3.5, caused unconsciousness, obviously, and a mild headache upon awakening, but nothing more.

Surely Worf didn't use a setting higher than 3.5?

“That's irrelevant now,” Julian muttered. He withdrew a vial of triptacederine from the cabinet and loaded a hypospray. “Garak, I'm going to give you something for the pain,” he said, whilst deactivating the forcefield.

Garak didn't answer.

Julian injected the contents of the hypospray.

Garak flinched and opened his eyes. An unmistakable flash of terror crossed his face. He closed his eyes again, tightly.

“Garak? What's wrong?”

Garak opened his eyes and glanced at him, but could not hold his gaze. His eyes darted wildly around the room, focusing on nothing in particular. His breathing had degenerated to rapid but ineffective gasps.

Julian reached for his medical bag.

An alarm on the biobed sounded.

Julian tapped it off and looked at the readings.

Garak's pulse and respiration rates were now significantly elevated, and his oxygen saturation level had already dropped to 92%. “I'm going to give you something to help you breathe. Hang in there a moment.” Julian opened his medical bag, took out a prepared hypospray, and injected the full dose of Tri-Ox.

Garak hissed and tried to pull away. The restraint held him in place. He fought it desperately.

“Garak, stop!”

No response. Garak continued pushing at the restraint. He slammed his hand into it.

Julian quickly filled a second hypospray with a sedative and injected it. He reached for Garak's hand.

Garak pulled away and hit at the restraint again.

“That's enough, Garak,” Julian said, trying to keep his voice calm and quiet. He grabbed both of Garak's hands again and held on. His hands were _cold._

Julian remembered what Garak told him, back when his implant was malfunctioning. “ _The temperature is always too cold, the lights always too bright...”_

 _Of course. It's much too cold for him in here._ _I should have remembered that._ “Computer. Raise temperature in Sickbay to thirty degrees.”

Gradually, the room began to warm, and the medications began to take effect.

Garak stopped struggling. His breathing steadied and slowed.

Julian glanced at the display. This time it showed a normal oxygen saturation level, and pulse and respiratory rates that were only slightly elevated.

“How are you feeling?” Julian asked. “Better?”

Garak's nod was barely perceptible. “A little,”he murmured faintly.

“That's good. Now, Worf told me he stunned you. I need to take a look –”

“No.”

“I'm sorry, Garak, but this is not negotiable. I need to examine the wound.”

Garak did not reply. He looked away and, after a moment, shut his eyes again.

 _Not exactly consent, but close enough, under the circumstances._ Julian unlatched the restraint and pulled it aside.

Garak's tunic was slightly charred where the phaser beam hit, but the damage was no more extensive than expected after a direct hit by a phaser set to medium stun.

Julian opened Garak's tunic, pulled up his shirts, and examined the burn. At the point of impact, Garak's microscales had been completely destroyed, and there was some damage to the underlying dermis. Along the perimeter of the wound, the microscales were cracked and discolored to a dark gray-maroon nearest the point of impact and a paler shade farther away.

The injury was, no doubt, painful, but not serious.

Julian ran the scanner again; it confirmed his earlier readings. “You've got a second-degree phaser burn, a moderate concussion, two broken ribs, and multiple contusions,” he announced. “They won't take long to repair. May I?”

Garak did not respond. He kept his eyes tightly closed.

“I'll take that as a 'yes'.” Julian ran the scanner again over Garak's head, picked up a regenerator, and got to work. Finished, he switched to an osteo-regenerator to repair the ribs. Lastly, he ran a dermal regenerator over Garak's phaser wound, the back of Garak's head, his face, and his abdomen.

“All right, Garak. I've done what I can,” he said when he finished. He tugged Garak's shirts and tunic back into position. “I'll need to monitor your head injury for at least 26 hours, so you'll have to stay in Sickbay until we get back to the station.

Garak opened his eyes and looked at Julian. “I … understand,” he said quietly.

“Good,” Julian said. “You'll be sore for a few days, and you'll probably have a headache for a while. I can give you something for the pain if you need it.”

“I do not.”

“All right. Let me know if you do after what I already gave you wears off,” Julian said, even though he knew Garak probably wouldn't tell him.

Julian reached for the restraint to replace it.

He looked up at Garak's sharp intake of breath. “Garak? What – ” Julian started to ask.

Garak was staring at the restraint. His eyes were wide and terrified.

“Garak?”

Garak did not respond. He didn't seem to notice that Julian had spoken.

He did not look away from the restraint.

Julian detached the restraint and set it aside. “All right, Garak. I won't put on the restraint, but you still have to stay in Sickbay,” he said.

No response. Garak was still staring at the restraint. His respirations were becoming fast and shallow again, despite the mild sedative.

Julian checked the monitor. As he'd expected, Garak's pulse had also gone up significantly since he'd last checked.

“Garak,” Julian said quietly. “I won't put the restraint back on you now, okay? You're not trapped. You're safe.”

After an interminably long minute and fourteen seconds, Garak blinked. He looked away from the restraint and took a deliberately slow breath.

Julian waited, pretending to check the biobed readings again.

Garak said nothing. He continued to take in slow, deliberate breaths.

“Are you all right?” Julian asked a few minutes later.

“I'm perfectly fine,” Garak said, but he did not meet Julian's eyes.

 _Well, that's obviously not true._ “What's wrong?” Julian asked. It had to be something other than the restraint, which was no longer on the bed.

“Nothing is wrong, Doctor,” he snarled. “If you were listening, you would know that. I said I'm perfectly fine!”

“I have been listening, for almost four years now, Garak. That's how I know that you only say you're 'perfectly fine' when you're actually anything but fine.” He forced himself to not laugh at Garak's utterly horrified expression.

 _You thought I hadn't noticed, didn't you?_ Julian thought. He ran through their conversations over the last few days, trying to come up with an explanation of what was upsetting him. Finally he realized it was probably the obvious – something to do with Worf stopping him from destroying the Founders' homeworld.

But that made no sense! Garak hadn't planned on doing _that._ He just wanted to ask the Founder … _The Founder! That's got to be it!_ Julian realized. “What did she say?” he asked.

“Hmm? _She,_ Doctor?” Garak asked, but it was no more than a token protest. He wasn't even looking at Julian.

“You know exactly whom I'm referring to! The shapeshifter! The one you were about to question before I beamed down to the planet with Captain Sisko and Odo!”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Garak! What did she say?” Julian demanded.

“There were no Cardassian survivors,” Garak quoted. His voice was quiet. “They're dead. You're dead. Cardassia is dead. Your people were doomed the moment they attacked us.”

“She's wrong, Garak.”

“Not at all, my dear Doctor. She's simply a bit … premature. The Dominion will destroy Cardassia. It is a threat to Bajor as well, and to your Federation.”

“We'll stop them.”

“No. We won't,” Garak replied.


	5. Chapter 5

Doctor Bashir was wrong. The Federation and its Starfleet could not stop the Dominion. By the time they tried, it would be too late.

Tain tried, with the power of the Obsidian Order and the Tal Shiar behind him, but the Founders were ready for them.

They weren't expecting an attack now.

It was the perfect time to launch one.

Garak had tried. He should have succeeded. He would have needed only a few more metrics to gain complete control of the torpedo bay, and perhaps another fifteen or twenty to gain control of the phaser banks as well. If he had been more careful, and not overlooked whichever security monitor he'd missed, he would have succeeded.

He should have stunned Worf and the rest of the crew before he even started work on the weapons systems.

Even if he hadn't, he should have been able to defeat Worf. After all, he was a trained agent of the Obsidian Order! Yes, it had been years since he worked for the Order on any regular basis. Yes, he no longer engaged in extensive hand-to-hand combat training as he had before his exile. But his training had been quite thorough, and he regularly practiced the strategems he learned at Bamarren.

Why had he failed?

Was Worf simply that much better at hand-to-hand combat?

Or was it worse than that?

Was he unable to fight without the implant?

Had he simply given up, after Worf's first substantial strike?

Was his heart, as the good Doctor would say, not in it?

He didn't think that was so. He was capable of sacrifice! Of course he was! He knew his destruction of the Founders' homeworld would have killed Bashir, along with Odo and Captain Sisko, but that was the necessary cost of saving Cardassia. He was willing! He had made his decision!

But the image of Bashir's horrified expression as he watched the _Defiant_ fire on the planet had flashed through his mind more than once.

In fact, his mind had returned to that unwelcome image time after time, while he shut down security monitors and started his modifications of the quantum torpedo controls.

He was _good_ at covering his tracks and remaining undetected! But this time, when it mattered most, he failed.

And it wasn't just because Worf was a better fighter.

It was because he had succumbed, yet again, to one of his worst failings: his deplorable vulnerability to sentiment.

“Why not, Garak?” Bashir asked impatiently and apparently not for the first time.

“Hmm?”

“Why are you so sure we can't stop the Dominion?”

Garak closed his eyes. His head ached abominably. His ribs screamed in pain with every breath. He didn't feel like enumerating the many advantages the Dominion had over Cardassia and the people of Terok Nor. “My dear Doctor, I'm quite certain you know the odds of our success, and the reasons for those odds, much better than I,” he said instead.

“No. I don't know the odds,” Julian said.

Garak suspected that Bashir's reply was only technically accurate. He might not know all the relevant information from which to calculate accurate odds. He had certainly calculated the odds based on the information he had ...

The information he had, but not information Cardassia had.

Garak hissed in disgust. He should have thought to warn Cardassia immediately after speaking with the Founder. He had not expected to fail, but he should have allowed for all eventualities. He hadn't, and Worf hadn't agreed to allow him any communications, and he'd not even thought to ask Bashir …

“Garak!”

Garak blinked.

Bashir was standing directly in front of him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his temple, looking from him to the sensor readings and back again, frowning.

“Garak? What's wrong?”

“I … I realized I have not warned Cardassia! Worf cut the power to the computer terminal. I hadn't the time to get it up again.”

“That's okay, Garak,” Bashir said. “Well, I mean, no, of course it's not okay. But you don't need to worry about sending a message. Captain Sisko already let Major Kira know what happened. He told her to advise Cardassia.”

“Did the message get through?”

“The message from Captain Sisko to Major Kira?”

“Precisely.”

“As far as I know, yes. I suppose we'll find out for sure when we get back to Deep Space Nine.”

Garak inclined his head. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“You're very welcome. We're on our way back now. We should be there within a few hours. Now, you should rest.”

“Very well,” Garak said, reluctantly. He certainly should not give in to physical weakness just yet. He should find a way to access a communications port and send his own message to Cardassia, to someone other than Dukat. But he had no access to communications, and his head hurt too much to _think._

“I'm serious, Garak. There's nothing you can do right now! You need to stay here and rest. If you try to leave, and Commander Worf finds you, he will insist that you be restrained like before, probably with a security guard or two posted. I _know_ that's not what you want.”

Garak sighed. Bashir was, unfortunately, correct. “I will stay,” he said reluctantly.

“Good,” Bashir replied. “Now, would you like something to drink? Tea or juice perhaps?” He walked over to the replicator.

What he _wanted_ was to complete the mission. If that wasn't possible, to contact someone on Cardassia directly. “Juice would be fine. Thank you,” he said instead.

“All right. Computer! One glass of _rokassa_ juice, and one cup of Tarkalean tea, extra sweet.”

Garak pushed himself up into a seated position. The room remained steady.

He took the proffered juice with a nod of acknowledgment. He said nothing when the doctor sat beside him with his tea. No doubt the captain or Odo demanded that he be supervised at all times now.

That was really quite annoying. Perhaps he should protest.

No. That would accomplish nothing. It certainly would not get him out of Sickbay any sooner, or give him access to the equipment necessary to send a communication to Cardassia.

There was nothing to do now, but wait.

* * *

The _Defiant_ vibrated in the way it did while traveling at a high warp speed.

It was probably approaching the wormhole by now, if in fact it was traveling back toward the station.

Garak had no way to know.

He had no chronometer. No visual reference from suns, other stars, or moons.

Just a never-ending cycle of inexorably increasing pain and the claustrophobic discomfort that inevitably accompanied confinement, interspersed with a most welcome drug-induced fog.

A day or two passed, or possibly a century, before Doctor Bashir announced the _Defiant's_ return to the station.

At the moment, the pain was manageable.

Garak pushed himself upright, slowly.

The room tilted disconcertingly, but otherwise remained steady.

Garak swung his legs off the bed too quickly; the room immediately started whirling around him in a rather unpleasant way.

“Garak! Lie down,” Julian said from nowhere.

“I am perfectly fine, Doctor,” Garak snapped. He closed his eyes and pressed both hands down on the bed to remain upright, but he did not lie down.

“No, you're not _fine,”_ Julian retorted. “And even if you were, Captain Sisko hasn't authorized me to release you. You're coming with me to the infirmary.”

Garak said nothing. The station's infirmary was not much of an improvement from the ship's medical bay, but at least it was off the ship.

“Just give me a few minutes, Garak,” Julian said as if Garak had responded.

Garak watched the doctor whirl about the room, a kaleidoscopic image of colors shifting other colors around.

“Garak? Are you ready?”

It could not possibly make any difference whether or not he was ready; he had no choice. “Yes,” he replied inanely.

“Bashir to Ops. Two to beam directly to the infirmary,” Julian said.

The transporter locked on and activated.

Garak couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

The room's already whirling colors spun around him, faster and faster. The vise pressing on his head gave way to a disconcerting lack of sensation.

Everything went dark.

Awareness returned in a sudden onslaught of memories and sensations.

An excruciating stab of pain pierced his skull and brain. It faded rapidly to a dull, nauseating throbbing sensation. The intense cold of the room did not help.

He opened his eyes to a ferocious onslaught of bright roiling color.

He closed them, quickly.

Swallowed hard.

Tried desperately to draw in air.

Tried again, and again.

A vague nothingness washed over him.

 _That's … better,_ he thought.

He let it take him.


	6. Chapter 6

The infirmary was quiet. The day's reports had been completed and submitted, the supplies re-stocked, the inventories updated, and the daily cleaning and maintenance tasks complete.

Nurse Jabara was enjoying a few minutes alone to catch up on her reading when the transporter whirred to life. She put down her padd.

Garak materialized on Biobed 1, evidently suffering from severe respiratory distress. He was still conscious, but gasping ineffectively for breath.

A moment later, Dr Bashir materialized beside him, just as Garak relaxed into unconsciousness.

Bashir activated the bio-bed sensors and snapped orders to the environmental control system, dimming the lights and activating the ventilation system, which began blowing out warm air.

Jabara hurried to the supply cabinet, took out a prepared hypo of Tri-Ox, and brought it to Bashir.

The doctor injected the Tri-Ox and the contents of another hypo he had taken from his bag. He reloaded the hypo and injected a third medication as well.

The medications began to take effect quickly. Garak's breathing stabilized and his respiratory and pulse rates normalized.

Bashir stood beside him, watching, not even trying to hide his worry behind the mask of professionalism to which she was accustomed.

“What happened?” Jabara asked, keeping her voice pitched low and quiet, just below the lower limits of Cardassian hearing.

“He got in a fight with Commander Worf,” Bashir explained. “Worf is fine. He had some contusions, easily repaired. But Garak wound up with a Grade II concussion and a couple of broken ribs, as well as a second degree phaser burn and several contusions. I wasn't present to treat him until several hours later. I've repaired the cerebral vasculature, the ribs, the burn, and the underlying damage of the contusions, but there was extensive swelling, and possible nerve damage, that will simply take time. He's still in a lot of pain, and he didn't react well to transport, obviously. I thought it best to sedate him for the time being. 10 cc's of Merfadon.”

Jabara nodded. That didn't entirely explain the respiratory distress. She suspected that the slightly impaired breathing caused by the broken ribs, in conjunction with severe pain, confinement in a medical facility, and perhaps the confinement and displacement of transport, had triggered a panic attack.

“And the other hypo?” she asked.

Bashir sighed. “Fifteen cc of triptacederine.”

“Triptacederine?” she repeated. “Isn't that the same drug he tried to use to –”

“Yes,” the doctor interrupted. “I know. It's probably not the best choice. But I needed something effective, and I know it worked for him before.”

“I understand. We'll monitor him, Doctor.”

“Yes,” Bashir said again.

He seemed upset, more so than Jabara would have thought the situation warranted. His patient was stable, and likely to make a full recovery, though of course it could take some time.

Perhaps he was still upset about the limits of his success in helping the people of the Teplan colony with the blight that infected their entire population.

Or perhaps he was upset about his other patient. She had heard only that the _Defiant_ had returned safely; not whether or not its mission had been successful.

Jabara approached the bio-bed and made a point of reading the data. “He's stable, Doctor,” she said.

Bashir jumped. Apparently he hadn't noticed her approach.

Jabara kept her expression serious and professional, not allowing him to see her amusement. “He's stable,” she repeated.

“Oh! Yes! Yes, you're right. He is,” Bashir said.

“How is Constable Odo?” Jabara asked.

“He's … well, I'm not sure. The Founders cured his … illness, but it turned out they gave it to him in the first place. And they made him human, only he – ”

“They did _what?!_ ”

“The Founders decided to make him a solid. He's human now, except he still looks like himself.”

“That's … well, I don't pretend to understand Changelings. I suppose they had their reasons. But why Human? Why not Bajoran?”

“Why would they do that?” Bashir asked.

Jabara allowed a flicker of annoyance to cross her face. “Odo was raised on Bajor, Doctor. I suppose you think they should have assumed that all “solids” should be Human unless otherwise specified?”

Dr Bashir shook his head. “No! Of course not! I just … I suppose I was distracted by the whole idea of Odo as a solid. I didn't think about what kind of solid they made him. And he looks Human! I mean, yes, of course he looks Human now, but he's always looked Human!”

“His looks are ambiguous,” Jabara corrected. “But he wears a Bajoran uniform, Doctor.”

“You're right,” Julian acknowledged. “Maybe the Founders simply maintained his previous appearance and modeled the physiological details on the other humanoids on the planet with him – namely, myself and Captain Sisko.”

“That makes sense.” Jabara changed the subject. “It's been a quiet few days here, Doctor. We've had mostly Starfleet and Bajoran personnel coming in for their annual exams, along with a few minor injuries and a plasma burn from an overly enthusiastic engineering tech aiming for speed and overlooking basic safety precautions. All under control.”

“Thank you, Jabara.”

“You're welcome. Now, I am on duty for another … 2.5 hours. In two hours Doctor N'shala will come on duty as well. Everything is covered here. Why don't you go get some sleep?”

Bashir glanced at the unconscious Cardassian. “I'm fine,” he deflected.

“I will keep an eye on Garak.”

“I … of course. But I've also got work to do on a … project I'm working on.”

“The Teplan Blight?”

“Exactly.” Bashir gave Jabara a quick overview of the process and the results thus far. “So I've not found anything even remotely effective as a cure,” he concluded.

“That is unfortunate,” she agreed. “But ruling out possibilities is itself an accomplishment. You mentioned the people are born with the disease?”

“That's right. They show some symptoms, but the disease seems to have little effect beyond somewhat painful, unsightly lesions, until the Quickening happens.”

“Have you found evidence of any way to delay the Quickening?”

Bashir's petulant annoyance vanished. “Electromagnetic radiation rapidly increases the rate of mutation. It enabled the pathogen to advance almost immediately to Quickening,” he said in a voice that could only be described as venomous.

Jabara nodded. She'd read his reports; she knew what had happened, and that he blamed himself. “So avoidance of EM radiation is essential,” she deflected.

“Yes.” Bashir brightened. “But what if there's something that has the opposite effect? Not something that delays mutation, that makes no sense, but something that, well, something that … what if I can find something that makes the pathogen remain dormant?”

“That would be almost as useful as a cure,” Jabara said.

“Yes, it would! You're absolutely right! Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go catch up on ...”

“Sleep,” Jabara interrupted. She ignored the doctor's glare and reminded him of what he already knew: exhaustion and sleep deprivation are not conducive to the efficient accomplishment of any goals, but particularly those that require a high degree of analysis and consistent observation. “As well as patience,” she added, looking pointedly at their currently unconscious patient.

Bashir laughed at that. “He's … not the easiest of patients,” he admitted.

“I remember,” Jabara said. “At least take the night off, Julian. Begin in the morning with a fresh mind.”

“All right,” Bashir agreed, reluctantly. “I will.”

“Thank you. Good night, Doctor.”

“Good night.” Bashir picked up his bag, turned toward the door, and stopped. He looked back at Garak indecisively.

“Doctor, I will ...” Jabara hesitated, trying to remember the Standard term. “...keep you posted.”

Bashir looked up, obviously only just noticing she'd noticed he was still there. “All right. Thank you, Elys.”

This time, he did leave. Jabara had her doubts as to whether or not he would follow her advice and rest, but there was nothing she could do about that. She had done all she could.

Jabara picked up her padd, angled a chair so she could keep an eye on her patient, and settled in for an hour or two of reading.


	7. Chapter 7

Julian returned to his quarters, but sleep eluded him.

His mind insisted on replaying the image of Garak, staring in horror at the isotopic restraint he had thoughtlessly begun to replace, despite his obviously negative reaction to it a few minutes earlier.

Garak didn't deserve that.

Of course, he had tried to wipe out an entire planet's population, which was entirely inexcusable. But he hadn't planned to do that. He'd planned only to ask a simple question.

He got his chance. The Founder's answer was nothing less than a promise of the genocide of Garak's people. Of course he responded badly! He couldn't have been thinking clearly after that.

Julian should have known the conversation with the Founder wouldn't go well. He should have talked to Garak before beaming down to the planet. He could have stopped him before he got himself in trouble with Starfleet.

But he didn't. He'd just beamed down to the planet.

What kind of a friend did that?

Garak had a reason for what he did, a legitimate reason.

Julian had almost started a war with the Founders himself, accidentally of course, but no one thought to punish _him._ Sitting on that tiny island, bored out of his mind – the only reason he hadn't absentmindedly skipped a stone into the Great Link was Captain Sisko noticing what he was about to do and stopping him.

The Founders, to say the least, would not have appreciated that stone flung at them.

Thank goodness Captain Sisko stopped him!

Just as Worf stopped Garak.

Garak didn't actually hurt anyone. Well, of course he had, in the past, but the past was in the past. This time, he didn't fire a single torpedo or phaser. He didn't so much as arm a torpedo or activate a phaser. He definitely did not start a war between the Founders and the Federation. That hadn't been his plan. Julian wasn't sure if that possibility would even have crossed his mind. Garak was not a Starfleet officer. He wasn't even a citizen of the Federation! He was a proud, loyal Cardassian, and Cardassia was already at war with the Dominion. Garak's attack on the Founders' homeland would not have affected that status.

Besides, attacking the Founders' homeland wasn't even Garak's plan at all, not originally. It was Tain's. It was only natural that Garak's reaction to the Founder's threatening words would have been to follow Tain's plan. After all, Garak had worked for him for years.

At least, Julian thought he had. He didn't really know how long. Or if Garak had actually worked for Tain. All he knew was they knew each other well. And that Tain seemed to be a horrible person who did not at all deserve Garak's loyalty.

Garak did not pursue Tain's plan at all after the failed Obsidian Order and Tal Shiar mission. For more than a year, he did nothing whatsoever that could possibly jeopardize the tense neutrality of current relations between the Federation and the Dominion.

The only thing that changed after that fiasco, so far as Julian could see, was Garak and Odo beginning to eat breakfast together. Technically, of course, _Garak_ ate breakfast while Odo pretended to consume a beverage that was actually made up of his own morphogenic substance, but, regardless, they seemed to enjoy discussing whatever it was they discussed over meals.

Surely that should count for more than one aborted attempt to carry out Tain's plan to destroy the Founders, especially under the circumstances.

Especially since no one in Starfleet seemed to object at all when they found out about Tain's plan in the first place! Vice Admiral Toddman blatantly _approved_ of the plan, and Sisko was more concerned with rescuing Odo than with protecting the Founders from the Obsidian Order and the Tal Shiar.

Of course, Starfleet was not directly involved back then. They would not have instigated the war, but they did expect an invasion by the Jem'Hadar of the Alpha Quadrant to follow Tain's attack.

It was only now that it was Garak trying to carry out that plan from the _Defiant_ , that they decided it was a completely unacceptable attempt at genocide and thus warranted punishment. Six months in a holding cell, he'd overheard Sisko say to Worf. A token punishment, perhaps, but Julian suspected it would be far more than that to Garak.

Garak valued his privacy, his independence, his work, and his ability to keep apprised of all that was going on around him, on the station and on Cardassia, of course, but probably in various other places as well.

He would not take well to incarceration, especially now, when he had a legitimate reason to believe his beloved Cardassia was in danger.

Most likely, the Founder's words changed nothing. Tain's attack happened more than a year ago. Anything the Founders planned, they would have planned long ago.

But Julian's opinion didn't change anything. He couldn't argue that Garak hadn't sabotaged the ship's quantum torpedo launcher controls, with the intent of launching an attack on and attempting to destroy the Founders' homeland; he had.

He had attacked Worf when Worf tried to stop him.

And he had attempted to sabotage the computer in his quarters on the _Defiant_.

There was nothing Julian could do about it. He was no lawyer. Best to ignore what had happened. He had enough to do, what with the almost complete lack of progress thus far on any viable cure for the Teplan Blight.

“Computer. Lights,” Julian ordered. Clearly he wasn't sleeping any time soon. He might as well return to his research, trying to expand on the limited success he'd had with the antigen that functioned as a fetal vaccine, while ensuring he never again caused harm like he inadvertently did by exposing a portion of the population to EM radiation that triggered the Quickening phase of the Blight.

There was a study he had yet to review pertaining to a promising treatment for extending the latency period of a particularly lethal strain of the Legato virus of Oby 6, as well as several other studies not quite as relevant but pertinent in some way to the topic of viruses with some sort of latency or dormancy period.

He had not yet researched a treatment protocol for the Teplan Blight designed to delay the onset of quickening. Destruction of the virus itself would be preferable, obviously, but neither he nor anyone else working on the Blight had yet had any success at doing so, other than the fetal vaccine.

However, delaying the onset of quickening was also a viable goal.

He had work to do in the morning – check on Garak, of course, but also debrief the medical staff and attend to the next day's patients.

He needed to sleep before then.

But first, he would take an hour or two to catch up on his research.


	8. Chapter 8

When Garak next awoke, it was to the sound of voices. He recognized Julian's distinctive Federation Standard, and a woman speaking Bajoran in the Dakhuri dialect. They were talking too quietly to hear, but he caught a couple of words, among them “blight” and “vaccine”.

They weren't speaking of him, then.

Good.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes.

Doctor Bashir and Nurse Jabara stood at one of the computer terminals, looking over something displayed on the screen.

The light was dimmer than before, the colors less intense, everything delightfully still.

He could breathe again.

The intense pain and nausea had faded a bit. Enough to be manageable.

Especially if he didn't move.

Garak closed his eyes again and listened to the occasional audible word of the discussion.

“Garak? Are you awake?” The Doctor's voice, some time later.

“Yes.” Garak opened his eyes.

Bashir stood beside his bed, watching him with a most irritating expression of professional concern. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Wonderful!” Garak exclaimed, feigning enthusiasm, offering the doctor a bright smile. “How are you?”

Not his best attempt at deflection, to be sure.

“I'm quite well, thank you,” Bashir replied, with a slight smile that reached his eyes.

A definite improvement.

“May I get you some tea? Or juice?”

Garak did not answer at first. He was still nauseous. He didn't want anything. But his mouth and throat were dry. “Juice, perhaps,” he said.

“All right.” Bashir crossed the room to the replicator.

Garak cautiously pushed himself upright. His headache flared sharply for a moment before reverting to something manageable.

Bashir returned with a glass of _rokassa_ juice and a cup of Tarkalean tea for himself. “Drink it slowly,” he advised.

Garak raised his eye ridges. “An ironic statement indeed, my dear Doctor,” he said, taking the glass, relieved his hands remained almost steady.

Bashir laughed. “I suppose you're right,” he acknowledged. He then proceeded to raise his cup exceptionally slowly, and take a minuscule sip, as if to prove he was capable of doing so.

Garak smiled and took a sip of his juice. It was surprisingly good.

“It's fresh,” Bashir said unnecessarily. “Quark just got in a shipment of fresh produce, including _rokassa_ fruit, from a Cardassian trader. It was grown somewhere in the Chin'taka system, I believe.”

“It's quite good, Doctor. It has been some time.” Fresh Cardassian produce was hardly a common trade good on the station.

He drank the juice slowly, savoring the freshness and the lack of the slightly unpleasant aftertaste inevitable in replicated _rokassa_ juice.

Bashir finished his tea, and took both of their empty cups to the reclaimer. “Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

“No. I'm fine, thank you.”

That was hardly accurate. If he were fine, he would hardly be here in this accursed medical bay. But his headache had flared again, sapping his remaining energy to the extent that it was all he could do at the moment to remain upright and keep his eyes open. Effecting an escape was something he would consider later.

“All right,” Bashir said dubiously. “Get some rest, then. I've got some work to do, but I'll come check on you in a few hours.”

Garak inclined his head politely and waited for Bashir to retreat to the room that housed his laboratory equipment.

Bashir glanced at the restraint fastened securely to the next bed.

 _“That_ will not be necessary, Doctor,” Garak said sharply, forcing himself to look away from it. “I will remain here.”

He could feel the doctor's gaze, but he evaded it. He didn't feel like talking.

“All right, Garak. Get some rest, all right?”

“Very well.” Garak allowed the doctor to help him lie down. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about what he should be doing. He tried to focus on Bashir's soft voice, saying something inaudible somewhere on the far side of the room, and to Nurse Jabara's somewhat higher-pitched, but equally soft, response.

“Garak?” Jabara's voice. Quite close. Beside the bed, from the sound.

“Hmm?”

“Doctor Bashir asked me to give you medication for your headache. May I?”

“Yes.”

Pathetic, really. He should have declined. Or at least asked what medication, specifically, it was the Bajoran planned to give him.

But, of course, had Jabara intended him harm, she had had ample opportunity over the years.

The cool metal pressed briefly on the side of his neck.

He kept his eyes shut and waited for the medication to take effect, trying ineffectively not to think about the work he should be doing, but could not do.

He should check on his shop, obviously. He had been away for several days. Worse, he'd left a backlog of repairs and alterations, not to mention the work commissioned by Quark to replace the garments that had been confiscated from him by the F.C.A. Liquidator.

More importantly, he needed to update his knowledge of the news from Cardassia, the station, and on and amongst the myriad worlds near enough to affect Cardassia, a task that had increased significantly since the discovery of the wormhole.

A task that now would be a welcome distraction from the pain and confinement and the utter futility of his life. 

Well. It certainly wouldn't do to allow anyone to realize just how much he detested this place.

There was nothing he could do about being here at the moment. His head ached too badly to attempt even to try to plan an escape, and he was well aware escape would be futile. He would have to stay and face whatever punishment Sisko decided on.

There was nowhere else he could go. No place that would tolerate the presence of an exiled Cardassian tailor, let alone a former operative of the Obsidian Order.

The _former_ Obsidian Order would be more accurate. It was gone, along with almost all of its operatives.

Along with Tain.

Garak's throat tightened. His eyes stung.

 _There is no excuse for such foolish, unnecessary sentimentality,_ Garak berated himself.

Certainly not here. Not now.

He wiped his eyes and closed them tightly. Forced himself to narrow his focus to his breathing. Slow, steady. In, out.

Unbidden, his mind returned to the topic of his punishment.

He allowed it. It was an improvement over the other.

Punishment was inevitable. Neither Starfleet in general nor Captain Sisko in particular would ever condone an attempted genocide. Of course, Captain Sisko did not object when it was Tain … no. When it was the _Obsidian Order_ and the Tal Shiar attempting to wipe out the Founders. He had found no indication that anyone from Starfleet had objected back then.

But when a Starfleet ship was involved, apparently it became a very different matter.

It became an unforgivable … sin? Crime? He wasn't entirely sure how they would characterize what he had tried to do.

Well. It would certainly entail punishment, so _crime_ would suffice.

In the Doctor's literature, long-term confinement seemed to be the inevitable punishment for a wide range of crimes.

That was very likely the punishment Sisko would choose, if his punishment were to be the captain's decision.

Garak suspected it would. The _Defiant_ was not Earth. Captain Sisko could easily take the matter into his own hands as a disciplinary matter on board his ship rather than report it as a crime to the Federation.

Sisko had long since proven himself willing to do whatever it took to accomplish his personal goals. Extortion, threats of confinement to quarters – Garak knew from personal experience that Sisko was willing to engage in quite unpleasant actions when such actions suited his purpose.

The Captain might decide to hold a Federation-style trial. Probably not Starfleet. Starfleet was military. It could not try foreign nationals. But _he_ was an exile. Starfleet might not consider him a foreign national.

The idea was … not a pleasant one.

Well.

Sisko could run the trial himself, as he had in the incident with Kotan Pa'Dar and his son Rugal.

Probably Sisko had already determined his guilt. He, or whoever was serving as Archon … no. Not Archon. The Terran word was “judge”. The role was not quite the same.

The _judge_ would explain to the people what Garak had done, and what he had tried to do. She would explain how doing so put everyone in danger. Deep Space Nine, Starfleet, the Federation. The entire Alpha Quadrant, maybe.

She wouldn't mention Cardassia.

She would explain why all citizens must work to enhance the well-being of the State. How Garak had failed in his basic duty. Why his execution was essential. For the good of … whatever-it-was.

No. That wasn't right.

Julian said the practice of execution was barbaric. The Federation would not have him executed.

They would find a different punishment.

Or they would have him extradited to Cardassia to stand trial. The verdict if that were to happen, of course, would depend on which Archon was appointed to preside.

Even after the destruction of the Order, there were, no doubt, more than a few people remaining on Cardassia who would be pleased to see him stand trial and be executed.

Imprisonment was another possibility.

So was a promotion and return to his former responsibilities, though _that_ was hardly likely.

Most likely, Sisko would choose to apply Federation or Bajoran law.

The station was under joint Bajoran and Federation control. But the _Defiant_ was Federation. Starfleet.

Probably, Federation law would apply.

There would be a Federation-style trial.

Trials in Bashir's literature were quite different to those on Cardassia. Evidence was heard and arguments made at the trial itself, and there was always a juryof the accused's peers to determine guilt or innocence.

Odd.

If he were to be tried under Federation law, who would be his peers? Besides Ziyal, he was the only Cardassian present, let alone residing, on the station, and one of a very few non-Bajoran and non-Federation citizens.

Was it to be up to Quark, Rom, Morn, Ziyal, a couple of Dabo girls, and a handful of engineers to determine his fate?

Would he face a jury of Bajorans and Federation citizens?

Or would a non-Federation trial be held, with no jury?

It was also entirely possible that Captain Sisko would forego a trial entirely. The captain was nothing if not pragmatic. He was not above extortion, when it came to getting what he wanted. Surely he was not above … modifying his report to Starfleet.

Downplaying, so to speak, Garak's actions.

Leaving out certain … details, to ensure that Starfleet would have no cause to step in and insist on Federation-style justice.

To ensure that he would not be prevented from keeping Garak on the station, where he could make use of him.

As he had done before, when he wanted Garak's help in rescuing Kira from Cardassia Prime.

He had made certain that Garak had no real choice but to help. He had threatened to accept Bajor's demands that he be removed from the station – the one place in the Universe in which he was, more or less, safe.

Garak had no choice but to return to Cardassia Prime with Sisko and his crew. The one place in all the world he most wanted to return to; the one place in all the world to which he could never risk return.

Cardassia was nearly the most dangerous place possible for him to be.

It had not been a pleasant visit, or a pleasant journey.

Sitting in his minuscule quarters, running through countless permutations of ways the mission could go wrong.

Most resulted in his own death.

As he ran through more and more permutations of different exigencies that could lead to his death, the weight of the walls pressing in on him had become increasingly intolerable.

He'd eventually decided to risk Sisko's wrath. He stepped out into the corridors, which somehow seemed even smaller than his quarters. Worse, Odo was making his way through the corridors just as he passed the access corridor near the main phaser banks.

Odo had accused him of loitering near the phaser banks, and Sisko threatened to confine him to quarters.

Garak had protested.

Before Sisko or Odo could force the issue, Dax announced the approach of two Galor-class warships. They'd turned on a filter to make Sisko and his crew appear like a Khobeerian captain and crew, but Benil and, presumably, everyone else on patrol in the area had orders to board and inspect every ship.

Garak got them out of it. He put on his old persona of second-in-command of the Obsidian Order, cited an old, but still valid, Obsidian Order mission code, and ordered the Gul to stand down.

It had been successful.

As soon as the transmission ended, Garak immediately reverted to his plain and simple tailor persona, but he knew Sisko and the others remembered the other.

He certainly did not need them thinking of him now as dangerous. He needed their consent to remain on Deep Space Nine – his refuge, unpleasant though it was.

Throughout their mission, he had tried to be as benign and cooperative as possible. He was tempted to withdraw his presence, to observe without being observed, as the _regnar_ Mila taught him at Bamarren and, especially, in the Mekar Wilderness, but he resisted that temptation.

The sooner the mission succeeded, the sooner he could get off the planet that was so familiar in so many ways, except one.

He no longer belonged there.

The mission had been successful. They located and rescued Major Kira.

Garak survived as well, obviously, but not without the unpleasant necessity of killing a former colleague to prevent that former colleague from killing him. And not without the unpleasant necessity of leaving Cardassia without any but the most cursory of visits, followed by the interminable journey back to the station.

That mission had been a success, yes, but it was certainly not something he would ever choose to repeat.

Sisko, on the other hand, almost certainly would repeat his most unpleasant role.

Garak was quite certain things would not go well for him.


	9. Chapter 9

Odo made his way directly to his quarters upon his return from the Gamma Quadrant, avoiding the curious gazes of passers-by and giving only cursory responses to greetings, making it clear he wished to be left alone.

He would have preferred to return to duty, but Captain Sisko had ordered him to take the day off. Besides, he had no uniform. He was still wearing the blue pajamas Doctor Bashir gave him. He had been offered other clothing, but the _Defiant's_ replicators were programmed only with Starfleet clothing. He was _not_ Starfleet. If he was going to wear something other than his security uniform, he might as well wear what he was already wearing. It fit well enough. Garak would be released from the infirmary soon; he would ask then if the tailor had any Bajoran uniforms available that would fit him.

In the meantime, he had plenty to do to occupy himself: a week's worth of a security logs, transport logs, and customs records, among other documents – not to mention the necessity of learning how to live as a solid.

Well. _That_ could wait. He had already eaten and consumed water. Now, it was past time to learn what Quark had been up to during his absence.

Odo logged into his computer station and accessed the security logs. He opened the first log from the day he and the others had left on their journey to the Gamma Quadrant, and settled himself comfortably in the room's sole chair for an afternoon of fascinating reading.


	10. Chapter 10

“Garak. Captain Sisko will see you now,” Worf's deep voice announced.

Garak opened his eyes.

Commander Worf stood near his bed, but Captain Sisko was not there.

Evidently, he would have to go to him.

Wonderful.

Garak sat up, slowly, and carefully.

The movement intensified his headache, but the room remained still.

He looked around. Doctor Bashir was nowhere to be seen, and Nurse Jabara was sitting in front of a computer terminal, watching both him and the commander.

She noticed his attention, and inclined her head in a courteous Cardassian-style greeting.

He returned the gesture, trying to hide his instinctive wince at the movement, and continued his scan of the room.

It was otherwise empty; no other staff or patients.

But outside the door, one of Worf's security staff, a young Ensign, Jimenez by name, he believed, stood watch. She and Worf were armed, but their sidearms and other weapons were safely holstered.

No one carried the … _handcuffs_ … like those he and Bashir were restrained by in Bashir's holosuite program. Those had apparently been ubiquitous on Earth.

No one carried any other visible restraints.

Garak said nothing, but he did appreciate their discretion.

Most people on the station, these days, tended to either ignore him completely, or distantly tolerate him. Only a few openly looked at him with disdain. Fewer glared at him with outright hatred.

All that would change if he were paraded through the station as an obvious prisoner, if it hadn't already changed when the news got around of what he had tried to do.

“Let's go, Garak,” Worf said. He did not seem impatient, but Garak knew he would not tolerate unnecessary delay.

Well. Worf would simply have to wait. Garak had no intention of making his currently deplorable physical condition any more obvious than was absolutely necessary.

He moved slowly and steadily as he swung his legs down from the bed, leaned forward slightly, and stood up, with one hand on the bed to ensure his balance.

Unnecessarily, as it happened.

The room remained steady, and his legs supported him without trouble.

“Excuse me a moment, Commander,” Nurse Jabara spoke up.

“Certainly,” Worf responded politely.

“Where are you taking him?”

“To Captain Sisko's office.”

“I would not recommend that. Garak, you should be resting. Not traipsing about the station.”

 _I completely agree,_ Garak thought. But it wouldn't do to let Worf know that. “I am quite capable of walking, Nurse Jabara,” he said instead.

 _You would be more convincing if you stood without support,_ he reminded himself. But his head was throbbing too much to make the effort. Involuntarily, he shut his eyes.

“Captain Sisko is waiting for him,” Worf said. “He is also waiting to hear from Admiral Nechayev. He is not free to come to the infirmary at this time.”

“I understand that, Commander, but I won't have my patient harmed. Garak, sit down, if you would be so kind. I will administer an analgesic. If it is effective, you may accompany the Commander, if you so choose.”

Garak opened his eyes. “If I so choose?” he repeated the words he thought he'd heard.

“That is correct. You are under medical care at the moment, Mr … my apologies. Garak. If necessary, I will override the Captain's order.”

Garak raised an eye-ridge thoughtfully.

“I will not override the Captain's order for you to meet with him,” Jabara said, an undertone of amusement in her voice. “You will meet with him here, when he has the time, if you choose not to go to his office.”

Garak allowed himself to show a genuine smile at the nurse's understanding. He sank down onto the bio-bed.

Jabara removed a hypospray from the cabinet, inserted a vial, and adjusted the dose. She approached and, after he nodded his consent, injected the contents.

Garak closed his eyes and waited.

It seemed to take quite some time, but eventually the pain receded.

He opened his eyes and glanced at Worf.

“Give yourself a few more minutes, Garak,” Jabara said softly before he could tell the Commander he was ready. “And try not to make any sudden movements.”

“I understand. Thank you, Nurse Jabara.”

“You're quite welcome.” Jabara looked at him closely, checked the readings on the bio-bed, and, apparently satisfied, nodded to the Commander.

“Are you ready?” Worf asked. His tone was ... polite, which was rather odd.

“Quite.” He was indeed quite ready to leave the infirmary, if less than enthusiastic about actually walking any substantial distance.

Worf nodded at the ensign, and gestured for Garak to precede them.

Garak did not protest. He walked slowly, trying to delay the inevitable escalation of his headache, which was barely noticeable at the moment.

But the station's walkways surrounding him seemed smaller than he remembered. The walls pressed in on him unpleasantly.

Garak blinked and looked around.

The walls were in their usual positions.

And the entrance to the turbolift gaped directly in front of him.

Garak froze.

Ensign Jimenez almost crashed into him.

Garak turned and glared at her. He barely stopped himself from hissing at her like an angry pre-verbal child.

“Sorry,” Jimenez apologized, stepping back to a more appropriate distance.

Garak inclined his head briefly. Apparently the security officer's intrusion into his personal space, objectionable though it had been at the moment, was not intentional.

“Let's go, Garak,” Worf said.

“Certainly,” Garak said, affecting a complacent tone and cooperative demeanor. “I simply remembered I … have an order of Inkarian woolen cloth to place.”

“You do not need cloth of any kind to meet with the Captain.”

“That is true,” Garak acknowledged, courteously maintaining benign eye contact.

 _Not_ looking at the gaping maw in front of him.

Worf scowled at him.

Garak smiled politely.

He did not move a centimeter closer to the turbolift.

Worf nodded at Jimenez. They each grabbed one of Garak's arms and pulled.

Garak did not resist. He did not, after all, object to meeting with the Captain. Knowledge, after all, is power, and he wanted to know his fate. How else could he prepare himself for it?

He stepped through the opening into the turbolift and turned to face the door. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see it slide shut.

He could feel it, looming in front of him.

He backed away, stopping only when he felt the bar behind him.

The turbolift began to move. Just like the ground beneath him in the tunnels leading away from the facility on the slopes of the Terran mountain, Everest, in that dreadful holosuite program.

Right before the stone and gravel of the tunnel walls and ceilings started to crumble, falling in on him and Bashir.

 _This is not at all like those Earth-quakes,_ Garak told himself firmly, if not entirely accurately. _These tunnels are metal. They won't collapse. They won't crumble into rubble and dust like the structure on Tzenketh._

The turbolift continued on its way, hurtling through its tunnel. It slowed and stopped.

Garak opened his eyes and waited impatiently for the door to open.

The doors remained closed.

The turbolift began accelerating again, upwards this time.

Any second, the rocks would begin to fall. He would be trapped.

Nowhere to go.

No way out.

No air to breathe.

The aftershock stopped.

Nothing had fallen. Yet.

Cautiously, Garak opened his eyes.

He wasn't in the tunnels of the holosuite program.

He was in a turbolift.

It wasn't moving.

Its doors whooshed open, loud enough to hear over his pounding heart.

Garak let go of the rail he hadn't realized he was clutching, darted forward, and lunged through the door.

Worf darted towards him and grabbed his arm.

“Leave me alone,” Garak hissed. He pulled away and stumbled backward into a control panel. He stood there, eyes closed, leaning against the panel just enough to remain upright, trying to catch his breath.

“Garak. You are not in danger.” It was Worf's voice, but he seemed to be ... offering … comfort?

Odd.

But better than the alternative.

He truly did not wish to be restrained and dragged to wherever he was expected to be.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes.

He was not in a stone tunnel.

 _That is obvious, Garak_ , he chided himself.

He was in Ops. Leaning against the environmental control panel. With the eyes of Lieutenant Commander Dax, Major Kira, and two Starfleet ensigns staring at him.

But not with the disdain he would have expected to receive for his unforgivably pathetic entrance.

Dax looked sympathetic. So did the ensign standing at the engineering panel. The other apparently remembered he had work to do. He looked away as soon as Garak looked in his direction.

Kira looked … confused.

Well. Confusion was an acceptable state for her to remain in, under the circumstances.

He certainly did not need her to figure out the reason for his … unfortunate response. He did not need her to make any suggestions to the Captain as to how best to punish him.

Garak schooled his expression into his calm, courteous customer service mask and deliberately stepped away from the wall as if he were confident the room wouldn't again begin shifting about.

“Well. We mustn't keep the Captain waiting,” he said brightly.

Worf narrowed his eyes and looked at him suspiciously.

Garak held his mask firmly in place and pretended he was bored with the entire situation.

“Very well,” Worf said at last. He turned and led the way towards the Captain's office.

Garak followed, sensing Jimenez behind him.

“Mr. Garak. Come in.” Sisko's tone was civil, the brief glance he gave Garak impassive.

Worf stepped aside, and Garak strode past, mask firmly in place, to the chair before Sisko's desk. He sat without invitation and waited.

“Thank you, Commander. Ensign,” Sisko said, politely yet dismissively. Worf and Jimenez stepped away from the door.

Captain Sisko's impassive expression gave way in an instant to a ferocious gaze. He looked very much like a _honge_ preparing to scream a challenge to a rival encroaching on its territory.

If Sisko had feathers, his crest would be raised to its full height.

For just a moment, Garak was back on Cardassia, in the Mekar Wilderness. A swad of _honge_ soared overhead … no. They were no longer innocuously soaring.

They were diving. Attacking. A stab of pain in his shoulder and a horrifying glimpse of an empty eye socket flashed through Garak's mind. He repressed a shudder and forced his expression back to a bland, impassive mask.

“Mr. Garak. You have been accused of sabotage, assault of a Federation officer, and attempting to incite a war between the Federation and the Dominion. How do you plead?”

“I do not!” Garak replied, shocked.

Sisko stared at him suspiciously.

Garak waited, forcing himself to hold the Captain's gaze.

“I don't believe that … translated quite right, Mr. Garak,” Sisko said after a moment. “To plead, in this sense, is to respond to a legal action. In other words, what do you have to say for yourself? Are you guilty or not guilty?”

“I see. That … is not a definition with which I was familiar.” He should keep going, respond to the … what was the Standard term? Bills? Charges? He couldn't remember.

Sisko looked at him sharply.

“All right, Mr. Garak. Let's make this simple. Did you or did you not attempt to sabotage the _Defiant's_ torpedo launch controls?"

"I did not. I attempted only to _access_ the controls."

"My understanding is you attempted to gain control of the weapons systems so as to use the _Defiant's_ weapons to destroy the Founders' planet and everyone on it! You intended to annihilate the Founders, Garak! And to murder Dr. Bashir, Odo, and myself! You responded to a few unkind words with attempted genocide!" Sisko's voice boomed across the office, slamming into his aching head. “The Founders acted in self defense. You could say they over-reacted, but you cannot deny that the Obsidian Order and the Tal Shiar intended to attack them. The Founders protected themselves and retaliated against the Cardassian-Romulan fleet. That is very different than genocide.”

“The Founder told me all my people are doomed, Captain. That is nothing if not a promise of genocide.”

“I understand your concern, but I disagree.”

“Captain, I – ”

“Her words could be interpreted as a threat, yes, I understand that. But they could also be simply hyperbole. Exaggeration. A way of expressing her disapproval of the actions taken by the Obsidian Order and the Tal Shiar. I'm sorry, Mr. Garak, but without any evidence of some sort of intent to act on those words, I cannot condone a preemptive strike against the Founders. Doing so could bring the Federation into what is now a disagreement between the Dominion and the Cardassian Empire. I cannot condone –”

“It is a _war_ , Captain,” Garak corrected. “Not a mere … _disagreement._ Yes, it is between the Dominion and Cardassia, as well as the Romulan Star Empire. But it will not remain so limited once the Dominion establishes itself within the Alpha Quadrant.”

“You may be right.” Sisko turned away and picked up a white spherical object from his desk. He tossed it from hand to hand, apparently lost in thought. After a minute or two, he replaced the sphere and turned back to Garak. “Be that as it may, the Federation will not preemptively attack the Founders.”

Garak felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. _Sentiment_ , he thought in disgust. _Sisko has no_ reason _to help Cardassia._ There was nothing he could do to change that. Except … he could tell the Captain what the Founder had said. That was unlikely to alter Sisko's decision, but he had to try.

And he would try the Human way. Not through logical debate, with detailed recitations of fact and compelling arguments, but with simple, direct statements, and the honesty Julian seemed to value so highly.

Garak allowed the Inquisitor's mask to drop, replaced by the plain and simple customer service mask.

He hesitated. That was a truth, that mask.

But it wasn't the truth that might convince Sisko to alter his decision.

Garak dropped that mask as well. He allowed his own horror and fear, hopelessness, pain, and exhaustion to show.

He waited until Sisko's expression reflected his understanding and, perhaps, even a bit of sympathy, before allowing himself to retreat to the comfort of a neutral mask.

“They're dead. You’re dead. Cardassia is dead. Your people were doomed the moment they attacked us. I believe that answers your question,” Garak recited tonelessly.

“I beg your pardon?” Sisko asked.

“That is what the Founder said, in response to my query about Cardassian survivors,” Garak explained, forcing his voice to remain calm.

He was not as successful as he would have liked.

Sisko sighed. “Yes, Mr. Garak. Worf told me what she said. I will speak to Gul Dukat, but there is nothing else I can do.”

“That would accomplish nothing, Captain. Dukat cannot be trusted.”

Sisko looked at him with an unreadable expression. “Is that so?” he asked.

Garak put on a plain and simple smile. “You have met Dukat, have you not, Captain?”

Sisko laughed. “Yes, Mr. Garak. I have.”

“Well. Might I suggest that it would do no harm for you to contact someone else on Cardassia? Perhaps someone on the Detapa Council?”

“Whom would you suggest?”

“I cannot suggest anyone! I haven't been on Cardassia in years, unless you count that one brief sojourn.”

Sisko sighed. “Then why, may I ask, did you make the suggestion?”

“You might contact the Detapa Council indirectly,” Garak said quickly, not taking the time to evaluate what Sisko would read from his expression. “Legate Tekeny Ghemor, perhaps. He may not reside on Prime at the moment, but he has remained very much … “in the loop”, I believe the saying is … with respect to current events within Cardassia's government. He will know whom to contact. Of no doubt equal importance to you, Captain, he is well disposed toward the Federation.”

Sisko picked up the sphere and commenced tossing it again. “I suppose you could be right,” he said at last. “Very well. I will contact him.”

“Perhaps … Major Kira should contact him,” Garak suggested. Odd though it was, the Legate seemed quite fond of Major Kira, even after he learned that she was not, in fact, his missing daughter Iliana.

Odder still, the sentiment appeared to be mutual.

Legate Ghemor would listen to Kira.

Sisko looked at him sharply. Then he smiled.

It wasn't a friendly smile. “Perhaps she should. I will speak with her momentarily.” Sisko sighed.

“In the meantime, there is still another charge to address. You assaulted a Starfleet officer.”

“Commander Worf is a Klingon, Captain. Physical conflict is a legitimate way to address differences, amongst his people.”

Sisko allowed himself a smile before masking his amusement. “Perhaps, but it's not a legitimate way to address differences amongst Federation people. Nor amongst your own people, Mr. Garak.”

Garak inclined his head. “How observant of you, Captain,” he acknowledged.

Sisko gave him an expression with which Garak was unfamiliar. Annoyance or irritation, perhaps.

“Mr. Garak, I believe I understand the reasons for your actions. However, I cannot condone them. You are guilty of all of the actions of which you stand accused. There are extenuating circumstances, I realize, but you must understand that I cannot condone genocide, whatever the provocation.”

“The … _provocation_ , as you put it _,_ was a viable threat of the genocide of my people,” Garak replied coldly.

“It was a baseless threat! The Founders –”

“You do not know that, Captain.”

“What I know is irrelevant. There is no _evidence_ that it was anything else! The Founders have given no sign that genocide is their intent.” Sisko sighed. He continued tossing his sphere, watching it, evidently lost in thought.

After a long moment, he looked up at Garak. “We will be prepared,” he said firmly. “We will defend ourselves. So will Cardassia. As for the consequences for your actions –”

“Thank you, Commander,” Garak said coldly. “But I am quite aware of the consequences of my actions. Cardassia will be destroyed, as will all of her colonies and former colonies. Perhaps every planet in the Alpha Quadrant.”

“You don't know that,” Sisko snapped. “Cardassia will defend itself. Starfleet and the Klingon Empire will do what we can.”

“You will not succeed!” Garak said. “Only if you act now –”

“Mr. Garak, this discussion is finished! I will contact Gul Dukat. Major Kira will contact Legate Ghemor. Because of extenuating circumstances, you will not be extradited to Cardassia. Nor will you be required to formally stand trial before a Bajoran or Federation court. Your sentencing is under my jurisdiction, as the commanding officer of the ship on which your actions were committed. I sentence you to six months of incarceration, which you will serve under Constable Odo's supervision, in the facility on this station, beginning in three days.

A holding cell? _Six months_ in a holding cell?Garak didn't even try to mask his horror. He knew confinement was a possibility, of course. It seemed to be a nearly universal punishment for failure. Tain, Bamarren, the Federation – it was all the same.

He had been a fool to even hope that the Federation, with all its talk about the superiority of its own justice system, would be any better.

The Federation was worse than anyone! _Six months_ of confinement? Not even Tain had inflicted _that_ on him. Hours, certainly. Many times. Overnight? Only once, before Mila stepped in and forbade him to repeat it.

It was, so far as he knew, the only time she interceded with Tain on his behalf.

Only Tzenketh had been worse than that night. He did not know how long he had been trapped there, beneath and amidst the rubble of the collapsed house.

 _A holding cell will be more tolerable than Tzenketh_ , Garak told himself, desperately trying to ignore the encroaching walls of Sisko's office. _I will be able to see out. There will be enough air. There will be no clouds of dust filling my eyes and nose every time a bit of rubble shifts. But six months_ … _with no communication with Cardassia. No news. No way to serve. No room to move around._

A deep voice spoke.

Garak flinched.

Sisko was watching him, but Garak could not detect any sign of the cold fury the Captain had shown moments ago, or the calculating intelligence he usually conveyed. His words were that odd Federation phrase, always asked so seriously, as if there were some quantifiable measurement, some specific demarcation to distinguish between “all right” and “not all right”; his tone was a peculiar combination of genuine concern, basic courtesy, distrust, and mild irritation.

Garak replayed the last few minutes in his mind, and realized the captain had continued speaking after informing him of his sentence, though he had not heard a word.

“Garak?” Sisko was looking at him with an odd expression Garak did not try to interpret, other than to confirm that the Starfleet captain did not appear to be exceptionally angered at the moment.

 _Good. He probably won't decide to have me extradited to Cardassia for execution instead. Or, worse, increase the length of my sentence._ “I'm perfectly fine,” Garak replied. His voice was barely audible, and not quite steady, but if the Captain noticed, he said nothing.

Sisko nodded shortly. “Good.” He glanced at the paperwork on his desk. “Now, as I said, your sentence begins in three days. Will you be able to work during that time?”

Garak looked at him and waited silently. He was unsure of what work, exactly, Sisko was referring to, and he was too tired to try to figure it out.

“Constable Odo requires a new uniform. Will you be able to provide it to him?”

 _Why would Odo need me to provide him with a uniform? He doesn't wear clothing. Well, in a way he does. He makes his own … no. He_ is _his own clothing._

“It has been a trying few weeks, Mr. Garak,” Sisko said, allowing a hint of his own exhaustion to show. “I, for one, intend to enjoy a good night's sleep in my own bed. I do not begrudge you the same, should you choose to avail yourself of the opportunity.”

Garak raised an incredulous eye-ridge at Sisko's entirely unexpected comment, but he realized a moment later that the captain had meant for Garak to have the opportunity to sleep in _Garak's_ own bed – a significantly safer and more appealing option.

Sisko did not notice Garak's momentary confusion. “You will be assigned guards to accompany you anywhere you may choose to go on the station,” he went on. “And, of course, you may not leave the station. Your sentence, as I said, will begin in three days.”

“I understand.” Garak put on a polite smile, trying to disguise his relief that his sentence would not begin immediately. From Sisko's sharp, amused look, he could tell that he was fooling no one.

“Good. Will you return to work tomorrow?”

“Yes. I open my shop at 08:00.”

“All right. I'll let Odo know.”

“Very well,” Garak said. He stood, slowly and carefully, as the effects of the medication were beginning to wane.

“Mr. Garak.”

Garak looked at him.

Sisko was smiling at him in a politely threatening way that would not seem out of place on the face of an Inquisitor.

Garak put on a smile of his own – benign, polite, and mildly curious.

“I am sure I do not need to tell you that any recurrence of your prior actions would be quite … unfortunate. It would result in a significantly less lenient sentence than a mere six months in a holding cell. Likewise, be advised that your whereabouts and actions over the next three days will be monitored. Closely. Am I making myself clear?”

Garak inclined his head. “As Denavian glass,” he replied succinctly. He held the Captain's gaze for a moment. Then he turned and walked to the door.

This time, Sisko let him go.


	11. Chapter 11

Garak returned to his quarters via a somewhat circuitous route that allowed him to avoid both the crowds of the Promenade and the access tunnels accessible to civilians only by overriding the security lockouts at each entrance. The two security deputies Odo had assigned to him would not approve of that particular activity, and he saw no need to bring his capability to their attention.

The security program at his door indicated the entrance of one “guest” since he had last been there; no one was inside at the moment. He opened the door and paused at the threshold. He put on a cheerful smile, bid a polite “good night” to the deputies, and entered.

He locked the door behind him, told the computer to raise the humidity to 80% and the temperature to a tolerable but economical 30º, and took out his scanner. He deactivated and removed the three most obvious surveillance devices Odo had installed and placed variable-intensity electromagnetic scramblers beside the other two. The surveillance devices would continue to transmit data, but the clarity of both the visual and audio feeds would be of sufficiently low quality, even at the lowest-intensity intervals, to ensure privacy.

With that taken care of, Garak took out a glass and replicated a bottle of _kanar._

The replicator produced a bottle of pale blue liquid. Not the best vintage, perhaps, but it would suffice.

He poured a glassful, took a sip, and grimaced. Replicated _kanar_ had its uses, but a pleasant taste was not one of them. He would have preferred tea, as the room was still quite cold and its warmth would have been soothing, but his head was aching badly. The _kanar_ didn't help much, but by the third glass, the pain was tolerable.

Garak rose from the couch, cleaned the cup and set it aside. Next he went to check on his plants.

They had fared well during his absence. Garak sprayed the foliage of the Edosian orchids with tepid water, shifted the position of the potted i'su'ke a bit closer to the grow light, and replenished the water in the automated system that provided for the plants when he was away. Successfully, he noted. He saw no evidence of ill effects from his absence.

Garak looked at the plants for a long moment, his mind flashing images of Tolan's gardens and the grounds of Bamarren and of the Tarlak Sector. _This is no time for sentiment, Garak,_ he chided himself. He crossed the room to his computer terminal, typed in his access code, and provided the verbal confirmation sequence. After ensuring that his terminal had not been accessed during his absence, he activated and tested the necessary security failsafes and got to work.

Sisko had kept his word; he and Major Kira had contacted Dukat and Legate Ghemor, respectively. The communications record evidenced the use of surprisingly thorough encryption and security protocols. He could not access the recordings, not without an excessively high risk of being detected. Under the circumstances, the enhanced security was, no doubt, fortunate, though also disappointing. He would have liked to have observed the communications.

 _Well. That is simply not possible at this time._ Garak retreated from the communications system and accessed the station logs. Captain Sisko and Major Kira had already recorded their station logs, as had Commander Worf and Lieutenant Dax. The Captain had recorded a personal log as well.

Garak pulled up all three.

There was no mention of any Dominion troop build-up. Apparently, the _Defiant_ crew saw no more than the expected numbers of Jem'Hadar ships on their return to the Alpha Quadrant and the station.

The pertinent part of Kira's report contained a mention of her communication with Legate Ghemor that was so succinct as to be useless: “I contacted Legate Tekeny Ghemor today. He accepted my communication.”

Captain Sisko's logs were more forthcoming:

"Constable Odo has contracted an illness resulting in a progressive inability to maintain his physical form. We are bringing him to the Founders' homeland to request their assistance.

"We welcomed one of the Founders aboard the ship. She was successful at stabilizing Odo's condition – which it turns out was to be expected, as the Founders deliberately caused his condition to force his return to the homeland to stand in judgment for causing the death of the changeling who sabotaged the _Defiant_ during its mission a year ago to the Tzenkethi homeland, in an attempt to use the _Defiant_ and its crew to instigate war between the Federation and the Tzenkethi."

Garak turned away from the terminal. He had been to the Tzenkethi homeworld. It had been far from a pleasant experience.

Garak's quarters seemed uncomfortably small, all of a sudden. The walls pressed in on him; the ceiling seemed just a bit too low. He took a breath and deliberately looked around.

The walls were in the usual place. So was the ceiling. The flash of light and collapsing stone of the meeting place on Tzenketh was years ago. _Decades_ ago, to use the human term. “Focus, Garak,” he told himself aloud.

His heart continued pounding unpleasantly, and his breath was rather short. He made his way to the viewport and looked out at the stars.

The station was not facing Cardassia; he could see neither its sun nor Cardassia Prime. He could see Bajor's bright white star, Bajor-B'hava'el, and several of its planets. Beyond it was the dim red star of Tzenketh.

For a moment, he imagined himself, an eager young probe, approaching the sixth planet, icy and blue, preparing for his mission, brushing up on his Dakhuri Bajoran prior to meeting with his contact.

Landing the shuttle, making his way across the snow-covered slope to the town.

Shivering despite his warm garments and the coverings of his head and hands.

Finding the correct house, opening the door, going inside, calling out a greeting to the contact who wasn't there.

A flash of light.

The walls collapsing.

Chairs, a rug, chunks of rock and dust and glass – everything flying around him.

Taking shelter beneath a sturdy table.

Rubble all around him.

Dust filling the air.

A big chunk of rock hitting the table with enough force to break the table in half and pin his legs.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't breathe.

“Stop this, Garak,” he managed, flinging himself away from the viewport. “This is Terok Nor _,_ not Tzenketh.” He closed his eyes and focused on gaining control of his breathing.

After a while, his breathing eased. Garak kept his eyes closed and got back to work.

“Computer, replay the last station log, beginning after the reference to war between the Federation and the Tzenkethi.”

The computer beeped in acknowledgment and initiated the playback of the recording:

"Odo accepted the Founders' decision, and allowed them to judge him. He accompanied the Founder onto the planet's surface, as did Doctor Bashir and myself. Odo then accompanied the Founder into the Great Link. After some time, during which Doctor Bashir and I remained on the planet's surface, Odo emerged from the Great Link as a human. The Founders, apparently, determined that a proper punishment for killing the Changeling infiltrator last year was to return him to the solids as one of us.

"Upon our return to the planet, Mr. Worf informed us of an incident aboard the ship. Apparently, while aboard the ship, Mr. Garak questioned the Founder about the status of the Cardassians who were involved in last year's attempted Cardassian-Romulan attack on the Founders' homeland. The Founder informed him that there were no survivors, and that Cardassia and its people are “all dead”.

"Mr. Garak attempted to retaliate by taking control of the quantum torpedo launch controls so as to complete the mission attempted last year by the Cardassian and Romulan combined fleet. He physically resisted Commander Worf's attempt to prevent him from doing so (and from attempting to prevent him from inciting a war between the Federation and the Dominion). Mr. Worf successfully subdued him and confined him to quarters. Following Mr. Garak's subsequent attempt to gain control of the computer system, Worf instead confined him to a Sickbay biobed, under restraints.

"Although Mr. Garak's actions are, perhaps, understandable under the circumstances, they are not acceptable. For his own safety, and the safety of the Federation, he will be confined to a holding cell for six months, effective three days from today. He will be monitored in the meantime, and will have no access to any station systems connected to its weaponry."

Garak sighed. He could not fault Sisko's logic, and he suspected that his sentence might generally be considered quite lenient, from the harsh Federation perspective. However, he was also very much aware that he had not adequately masked his reaction. Sisko was now very much aware, if he hadn't been before, that for him, the confinement would be anything but, as the Humans said, a “slap on the wrist”.

It would be torture. And Sisko had a vindictive streak. Although Sisko had been polite and ostensibly concerned for his well-being, Garak would not have been at all surprised if he were to find some excuse to lengthen his sentence or otherwise make it less tolerable than it would already be.

 _That is mere speculation, Garak. It is not relevant_. “Computer, play next Station Log,” he ordered.

The computer signaled its assent and began playback of the next entry.

"I have spoken with Gul Dukat. He thanked me for the intelligence, and assured me that he would inform Central Command and the Detapa Council, as well as the Cardassian Intelligence Service."

“The Cardassian Intelligence Service is a joke,” Garak said aloud. “The Obsidian Order was a power. It could have effected … something. If nothing else, it could have established observation posts near the wormhole, in both quadrants, to provide warning of approaching craft.” Well. There was no sense in dwelling on that.

“Computer, play any subsequent Station Logs pertaining to Cardassia.”

"Working," the computer replied.

"Per Mr. Garak's suggestion, Major Kira spoke with Tekeny Ghemor on Mathen IV. Although Legate Ghemor is currently living in exile, he has retained contacts among the Cardassian people, especially those who hold the current government in less than high esteem. Although the Legate did not specify his plans, he did indicate to the Major that certain people on Cardassia Prime would be contacted and informed of the Dominion threat as well."

Garak shook his head in exasperation. _Surely Captain Sisko is aware station logs are not secure. They are hardly the place to directly state the location of an exiled dissident, especially one who may have reason to ally himself with Starfleet, under the circumstances._

No other station logs seemed relevant, other than the brief log pertaining to their return to the station, in which Sisko mentioned that there was no noticeable buildup of Dominion forces in the Gamma Quadrant.

Garak turned his attention back to the terminal and accessed the communications records.

Captain Sisko had, as expected, communicated with Starfleet.

Garak did not try to access the heavily encrypted and, no doubt, relatively secure recording. Nor did he send his own message to Ghemor. Any such message could be intercepted, and it would likely be disregarded even if it somehow evaded detection long enough for Ghemor to receive it.

However, there was another person he could contact. Tain's oft-repeated saying, “sentiment is your greatest weakness,” flashed through his mind; he pushed the thought aside. He owed it to Mila to warn her.


	12. Chapter 12

Julian's night off didn't happen as planned.

Less than two hours after he returned to his quarters, a badly damaged _Rio_ _Grande_ returned to the station. It had encountered an abandoned mine, probably Maquis in origin, on a routine scouting expedition along the Cardassian-Bajoran border. They had not detected it until it was too late. The explosion breached the unshielded hull in two places and tossed the runabout aside, overwhelming the inertial dampers and causing multiple casualties.

Jabara had immediately called him and Doctor N'Shala to the infirmary, along with half the support staff. They'd been busy for hours treating plasma burns, shrapnel wounds, decompression injuries, and various minor injuries.

Julian was grateful for the work. He had made a difference. He'd treated wounds his patients willingly acknowledged, and for which they gave more than grudging consent. He healed injuries, mitigated pain, and provided a modicum of comfort. At least he tried to. He was never entirely sure how successful he was at that.

By the time the last patients had been treated and discharged from the infirmary, he was tired enough to voluntarily turn the infirmary over to Nurse Jabara's capable hands and willingly return to his quarters. The laboratory and his studies on possible treatments of the Blight could wait. Garak was probably asleep in his quarters by now. He would not appreciate being awakened.

Julian had done all he could to treat Garak's injuries. Most were completely healed, though a slight stiffness to his movements and a distinct shallowness to his breathing suggested his ribs were still sore, and he was still obviously experiencing serious side effects from his concussion.

Even with modern Starfleet technology, there was nothing Julian could do to speed the process of healing from damage to the nerves. He'd stopped the bleeding and completely repaired the vasculature, but it would take time for healing to be complete.

There was little he could do even to appropriately control pain. Pain management for a patient who refuses to acknowledge pain at all until it's so severe he's barely holding on to consciousness was never taught at Starfleet Medical, at least not in any course Julian attended. Nor did they teach how to most effectively treat any other symptoms of which one had to guess as to the existence and severity.

“Well, there's certainly nothing you can do now, in the middle of the night,” he said aloud. “You may as well get some sleep. You can check on Garak and get back to work on a cure for the Blight in the morning.”

Julian glanced up at the shelf.

Kukalaka looked at him benignly.

“I'm glad you agree. Good night.”

Julian prepared himself for bed and lay down, but sleep eluded him. He tried to clear his mind and focus on his breathing.

That didn't work.

Neither did multiplication tables, the calculation of square roots, or medications and dosages for different species. Eventually he tried Terran political leaders and their respective dates in office. Sometime after King Stephen, Empress Maude, and Henry II, he drifted off into a restless sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Garak entered a code in his terminal and opened a secure link to Cardassia.

Mila accepted the call. “Elim! It's good to see you again,” she said. The sharp glance that momentarily flicked across her face belied the calmness and mild pleasure into which she almost immediately schooled her features.

He gave a slight nod, acknowledging both her caution – even a secure connection could be overheard by one with the proper equipment and skill – and her unspoken acknowledgment that something was amiss. “Indeed,” he said. “You look well, Mila.”

“For an old woman, I am. Thank you.”

Garak smiled. “And the gardens? How are they?”

“The gardens are not what they were under Tolan's care,” Mila acknowledged. “I do not have his skill, or yours. But they do keep me occupied.”

“I would like to see them again, some day,” Garak said.

“You know where they are,” Mila said, her voice harsh.

Garak allowed his surprise to show. Mila knew he could not return to Cardassia. Why would she be angry? Or could it be that she had missed him?

Perhaps she, too, was more susceptible to sentiment than she let on.

“I don't suppose you have much time for gardens these days,” Mila said, rather apologetically, Garak thought. Or perhaps he imagined that.

“Oh, I have the time,” Garak replied. “In fact, I have several plants in my quarters. Unfortunately, space and growing media are rather hard to come by.”

Mila gave a nod of acknowledgment.

“Did you know, several years ago I had an opportunity to journey off the station, to Bajor? It is a beautiful planet,” he continued, not waiting for an answer. “Have you seen it?” he asked, knowing well she had not.

“I have seen images, of course. It seems very green.”

“It is. You would enjoy it, I believe. It is particularly beautiful at this time of year, when the _indika_ flowers and the _moba_ trees are in bloom.”

Mila smiled. “Perhaps I would, Elim, but I would miss the gardens of Cardassia, and the blooms in the desert that come after the rains.”

“Ah. Perhaps you are right. The _perek_ flowers will bloom soon. They, too, are quite beautiful. It would be a shame to miss them,” Garak said, adding just a trace of the inquisitor's intensity to color his tone and gaze.

He was gratified to see that Mila did not miss his warning. She was no fool, and she had lived with Tolan for many years. She had observed his work preparing for and holding funeral services. She understood the essential role of the flowers.

She knew _perek_ flowers bloomed year round, when grown under shelter and with appropriate lighting.

They could be observed at any time.

“You are correct, Elim,” she said at last. “They are beautiful, and it would be a shame to miss their display. But it would be a greater shame to miss the display of the groves of _leya,_ and the _elta_ vines in Tolan's gardens. He always did admire them, if not so much as his beloved Edosian orchids.”

Garak felt his mask flicker, and he took a moment to re-establish it. “Perhaps it would, but that shame would pale in comparison to the shame of never availing oneself of the opportunity to observe the wide variety of flora that can be seen outside of Cardassia City. The flowers of the _mekla_ in particular are as beautiful as the _perek,_ especially near Lake Masad where they have spread so widely.”

Mila smiled. “I have been there, Elim. So have you, when you were a small boy.” She put on a chiding look. “You were quite unwilling to leave the waters of the lake, when the time came to return home. You always were a stubborn child.”

“Indeed,” Garak acknowledged. He had been a very young child at the time, but he remembered swimming in the warm waters with Tolan, walking along the shore with Mila, and watching other children and their families swim and walk and play.

He also remembered the public transport they had taken all the way from Cardassia City and, later, back again. It was tightly packed with tourists, traveling to and from their homes in Cardassia City and nearby Ostek, and their gear.

He was not tall enough yet to see out the windows.

He could see no farther than Tolan and Mila beside him, and the other travelers in front and behind.

There was no room to move.

“Elim,” Mila said.

“Hmm?” he asked vaguely.

“Lake Masad,” she prompted, drawing his attention back to the present. “It is beautiful, is it not?”

“Ah. Yes. It … yes. The Lake of Masad is beautiful. There is a similar lake near Kovalet, on Ithic II. Bajor also has beautiful lakes, and rivers, and several of its waterfalls are absolutely stunning.”

He was babbling. _Focus, Garak,_ he told himself. He took a deep breath, trying not to be obvious about it, and schooled his expression into a neutral mask. “Ithic II is a bit like Cardassia,” he said after a moment. “It has deserts, each with its own flora, but is also has wetter, tropical biomes. The Edosian orchid would thrive there. Of course, it would need an experienced gardener to establish the new plant.”

Mila nodded. “True. Are you to be a gardener again, Elim?” she asked.

Garak allowed himself a sigh. “No. I am … remaining here.” He looked at Mila, once again allowing the Inquisitor to slip through. “If you have the opportunity, and if you have no obligations, you should travel again.”

“Perhaps. One day,” Mila said in a placating tone that told Garak as clearly as if she had responded directly that she had heard and understood his warning, yet had no intention of leaving Cardassia or even her home within the city. “Elim, you should as well. Make the time to set foot on true soil, in a true garden. It would do you good.”

Garak's throat tightened and he felt tears prickle at his eyes at the unexpected kind words. He quickly blinked them away. “Perhaps I shall, one day,” he said. “In the meantime, my work awaits.”

Mila nodded. Without another word, she closed the link.

Garak stared silently at the blank screen for a long moment. There was very little he wanted more, at that moment, than to be back home – and there was no place less suitable.

Cardassia was safe for no one.

The Dominion could attack at any time.

Cardassia would defend itself, of course. Perhaps the Federation, the Romulans, and even the Klingons would assist. But all would be defeated. What would remain of Cardassia would bear little resemblance to the home he loved.

“Cardassia is not destroyed yet,” Garak said aloud, still speaking Kardasi. Yes, he had failed in his attempt to complete Tain's mission. Yes, it would be difficult to do anything to save Cardassia from the confines of a holding cell. But he was not yet in a holding cell, and the Dominion had not yet attacked, let alone destroyed, Cardassia. “There is work to do, Garak. Focus. Analyze the situation and make a plan.” Obviously, completing Tain's mission was out of the question at the moment. Intelligence, communications, and well-planned use of his connections and contacts would be the best area to address. Repairing his standing with Odo and Sisko was essential. It would be Odo who would determine what use he could be over the next six months; Sisko, of course, was his link to the Federation. And Bashir, indirectly. The Doctor had no direct contact, so far as Garak could ascertain, with Starfleet Command, but he certainly was willing to intercede with the Captain on Garak's behalf, from time to time. When he could be persuaded to do so.

Unfortunately, it was the Federation who had the best chance to deflect the Dominion attack, when it came. They controlled the wormhole with what was now essentially their station, commanded by one of their captains. Despite their sanctimonious assertions of peacefulness and their ostensible goal of exploration, the Federation's Starfleet had vast military resources, and a less acrimonious relationship with Cardassia than the Klingon Empire or the Romulan Star Empire.

Well. Acrimonious relationships or not, they too could be … useful. Garak opened a file on his computer terminal and began to read. Soon, the sharply curved Klingon letters began to blur together. Garak rubbed his eyes and continued reading. Only when he realized he hadn't understood a word of the last two paragraphs did he decide that rest was in order. He had not slept much on the _Defiant_ , and he knew sleep would be limited, at best, in the holding cell.

The thought of being trapped in the holding cell was enough to waken him fully and set his heart racing.

It would be intolerable.

He would have no way to protect Cardassia from the imminent Dominion invasion.

Little, if any, access to the news on Cardassia. Limited access to the news on the station.

No sartorial challenges to keep his mind and hands occupied throughout the day.

No lunches in the Replimat with Doctor Bashir.

No warm, properly lit quarters to retire to at the end of the day.

Nothing but a cold, bright space with no room to move. No privacy. No way out.

“If you say there's no way out, you'll be right, every time.” Tain's voice, echoing in his mind.

Garak shuddered. He closed his eyes against the encroaching walls. He was too tired to find the way out. But his mind didn't allow him the respite of sleep. It returned to Tain, droning on and on outside the cursed closet door.

“Elim. There is always a way out.”

“That's not true!” Garak snapped.

“Truth, Elim?”

“Truth is in the eye of the beholder,” Garak recited obediently.

“Precisely. And if you dislike the truth?”

“Change the parameters.” Garak opened his eyes. “Find the way out.”

The challenge, of course, was to find a way to escape the cell that would not lead to an immediate return, with enhanced security.

He could not simply dart through the cell door when the forcefield was dropped to allow someone to bring him a meal. Nor could he disable the guard, or guards, and run. Well, he _could_ , but without a ship, he would be forced to remain in hiding on the station. He could think of no effective hiding place on the station that would be the slightest improvement over a holding cell. He was the only Cardassian on the station; the scanners would find him too quickly. The only places he could effectively hide were in those places the scanners could not penetrate: the access tunnels, the storage compartments hidden behind them, and a few places in the areas formerly dedicated to ore processing, none of which was at all appealing as a place to stay for any significant length of time.

He could, instead, leave Deep Space Nine. That would not be difficult. He could access a runabout, or obtain passage on a freighter. However, even with the Obsidian Order gone, Tain still had influence on Cardassia.

Leaving Deep Space Nine would be a truly bad idea.

No. He would … what was the Human saying? Ah, yes. “Do his time”.

He would not escape, but he would find a way to make escape possible. If he so chose. That simple difference between having no way out at all and having no good way out could make all the difference.

Garak saved the Klingon file for later perusal, logged out of his terminal, and accessed it again, this time in the guise of a Bajoran security deputy. The security systems were complex, and he found himself enjoying the work as he made his way through routines and subroutines, careful to set off no alarms and trigger no unwanted security programs.

The controls for the holding cells were not well hidden, but they were well protected. It took some time to gain access, but eventually, he got in. He added a new command code to open the cells, making sure it was both well hidden and well protected.

Garak smiled. Setting up such a simple subroutine was little challenge, and it would be of no use at all if he had no access to the computer system, but he was pleased to have even the glimmer of a possibility of the option, nonetheless. He would certainly have no computer terminal within the holding cell. Nor would he have access to the computer's voice controls. However, if his padd were accepted as simply a portable device for reading and for preparing and storing preliminary sketches for new commissions, perhaps it would not be confiscated. With a simple modification to the settings, he could regain access to the voice controls.

If he needed to get out, there was a possibililty that he could do so.

He shut down the terminal. It would be some time before he needed it again. He moved on to his next task: packing for an extended stay in a holding cell. He began with necessities, adding his padd, clothing, and toiletries to the blanket, medical kit, and portable sewing kit already packed for his trip to the Gamma Quadrant. He did not bother with a disruptor or phaser. Odo's tricorder would detect either immediately. Then he began filling the pockets with data rods: his own favorite literature, a few books Bashir had given him over the last few years, trade journals pertaining to textiles and horticulture, and a few Kardasi books he had not yet read.

He checked the time. Seven hours and twenty-three minutes remained until he would need to open his shop.

Three days until he would be trapped inside one of Odo's holding cells. For six months.

Six months trapped without work. He had not thought of that at first, but that, too, would be a problem. Though he lived a rather modest lifestyle, he did have expenses for which he must pay, especially the rent for his shop and for his living quarters. After six months with no income, it would be a struggle to meet those expenses. Only if he incurred almost no additional expenses during his six months of forced unemployment and the following two months, and if customers were willing to do business him after so much time incarcerated, would he be able to retain his shop and his livelihood.

“This is hardly the time to dwell on such unpleasantness. There is work to be done,” Garak said aloud. He had several stacks of mending and of outstanding commissions – including almost an entire wardrobe for Quark. He thought of the Captain's cryptic comment about Odo's sudden need for his services. Completing those outstanding assignments and commissions would give him a slightly more substantial financial window.

Perhaps he could put in a few hours in the shop before retiring for the night. The sewing should calm him down enough to allow him to sleep.

Garak closed his travel bag and set it down, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands. He stood up and hissed in pain as the movement caused the dull throbbing in his head to escalate to what felt like an incipient explosion.

Well. That would hinder his work, and make sleep completely impossible.

He sank back down into the chair and sat, not moving at all except to try to breathe slowly and steadily.

Eventually, the pain dissipated, a little.

He rose from the chair, more slowly this time. He crossed his quarters, carefully, as his balance felt rather unsteady, to the panel behind his bed. He pried it open and withdrew a hypospray and the small case of triptacederine. He stared at them for a full minute before replacing both in the compartment. Odo's tricorder might detect the residue, if he scanned him. Doctor Bashir's medical tricorder definitely would.

Garak didn't know the typical Federation procedures for incarceration, or the expectations of its prisoners. He did not wish to have his sentence extended merely because of some inadvertent breaking of the rules.

Besides, recovery from the effects of withdrawal the last time had been most unpleasant. Of course he had been coming off the implant as well at that time, but he nonetheless most definitely did not want to repeat that experience, especially while confined in a place completely devoid of privacy.

Garak made his way back to the sitting area and replicated a second bottle of _kanar._ He poured a glass, and then another. The thought of a third crossed his mind, but he ignored it. He knew he'd already had too much. He sat with his eyes closed, keeping his breathing slow and steady, enjoying the pleasant, albeit illusory, feeling of warmth, and waiting for the headache to fade.

It did not fade much, but it did become slightly more tolerable. On the other hand, the tremor in his hands did not fade at all. It was not severe, but it would be enough to adversely affect the quality of his work.

Perhaps he should try to sleep instead. He would have time enough for work over the next few days.

Garak discarded the empty glass, changed into sleep clothes, and lay down on the bed.

Sleep did not come.

His mind kept replaying the shapeshifter's devastating words, and his own humiliation in the torpedo bay – his defeat by the Klingon, and, worse, his giving up so soon. He had allowed the discipline of his mind to lapse entirely after Worf slammed him to the ground.

Pathetic.

Wearily, he rubbed his temple. The _kanar_ had not been nearly enough. His head was throbbing as much now as before the second bottle. He pushed himself up to a sit, and the room whirled around him. He closed his eyes. _Breathe, Garak,_ he told himself. He waited a few minutes, and the room steadied.

Giving up on the idea of sleep for the moment, he opened his computer terminal and distracted himself, for some time, checking through the various security systems on the station, but that did not hold his interest long, as none of the systems had been changed since the last time he checked them. His mind skittered around in a most undisciplined way between the Founder's devastating words, his pounding head and racing heartbeat, and the vial of triptacederine in his med kit.

“Don't be ridiculous, Garak,” he said aloud. “You do _not_ need that.”

But he did need sleep, or he would not be able to work at all.

Garak lay down and tried to control his breathing. His success was limited. _A disciplined mind does not need medication merely to stay calm_ , he thought, disgusted. _People look at you with enough disdain as it is._

He shook his head. _No one will know._

“Of course someone will know,” he said aloud. _“Odo_ will know.” The chief of security was quite perceptive.

Garak checked the time. Five hours and thirteen minutes until opening. The effects of the drug might fade enough in that time that no one would notice anything amiss, though it would be better to take a smaller dose.

Quickly, he set an alarm on his padd. It would not do to sleep past the opening hour. Finished, he picked up the hypospray, filled it with half a dose of triptacederine, and injected it.

The effect was not immediate, but gradually his headache faded, his racing heart slowed, and his upcoming incarceration no longer seemed quite so unbearable.

Garak lay down and slept.


	14. Chapter 14

Garak's sleep was filled with troubled dreams of flashes of light, crumbling rock, small gray rooms with bright lights and confining chairs, and open desert plateaus with _honge_ soaring overhead.

When he woke, he did not feel much more rested than he had the previous night. His head throbbed, his back and side were still sore, and his new scales where Julian had run the regenerator itched, but the discomfort was tolerable.

He accessed his computer and checked all of the pertinent logs.

Nothing.

No indication of any unusual activity from the Gamma Quadrant.

No official news of any kind from Cardassia.

He checked his own sources. Nothing obviously relevant; only a few oblique references to unusually long meetings amongst several ranking members of the Council and Central Command, held at unusual times.

The computer chimed the hour, and Garak realized he had less than twenty-five metrics before opening. He shut down the computer and quickly prepared himself for the day. He allowed himself the time for one glass of _rokassa_ juice to stave off the already worsening headache.

The juice, though pleasant, had no effect at all on his headache. He hadn't the time to drink enough _kanar_ to have an effect, and it had not been of much use the previous night.

He should ignore the pain. Distract himself with his work.

Instead, he prepared a hypospray of triptacederine, and injected another half a dose.

By the time he arrived at his shop, his headache had barely dissipated. Worse, he was four minutes late, and Odo was standing impatiently outside the door. Incongruously, he was wearing what looked very much like Doctor Bashir's pajamas rather than his usual uniform.

“There you are, Garak. I was about to send a team to locate you,” Odo announced.

“I … my apologies,” Garak said politely. He quickly busied himself unlocking his door. He noticed Odo's sharp glance out of the corner of his eye. The constable obviously missed neither his verbal stumble nor the tremor in his hands that neither the juice nor the triptacederine had completely driven away, but he made no comment.

“I understand you are in need of my services?” Garak queried.

“That's right. I appear to be in need of a new uniform,” Odo said. He seemed a bit uncomfortable with the admission.

“Ah. So this was not an intentional sartorial change,” Garak said, indicating the blue pajamas.

Odo snorted. “Hardly. This is what was available on the _Defiant._ ”

“I … see,” Garak said, though he had no idea why what was available on the _Defiant_ made any difference to the shapeshifter. His uniform was simply a part of his body. Though Sisko had mentioned something about Odo needing new clothing.

Odo tilted his head and peered at Garak intently. “You don't know what I'm talking about,” he said, evidently amused by Garak's confusion.

“You are talking about your need for a new uniform,” Garak replied.

Odo nodded. “Yes. But you don't know _why_ I need one _.”_

“I am certain you will enlighten me,” Garak said, aiming for sarcasm, but sounding to his own ears merely tired and mildly irritated.

“It is because I am … I am a solid now.”

Odo's voice was so quiet that Garak suspected he had misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Founders … came to the peculiar conclusion that I wanted to be a solid, and acted accordingly.”

“Ah. Solely out of their desire for your well-being, of course.”

Odo sighed. “Indeed. So, obviously, I am in need of more appropriate attire.”

 _Interesting. One would have expected Sisko to have mentioned such news in his station log._ Garak thought back to what the log had said, and realized he could not remember a word.

Well. That was disconcerting.

Garak turned his attention back to the matter at hand: Odo's need for clothing, which Sisko wanted him to make. _Well, I can hardly make clothing in a holding cell._ “Uniforms take time to make, Constable.”

“Doubtless,” Odo replied. “However, it does not take so long to simply take out one of the Bajoran uniforms you have already prepared for the not-uncommon eventuality of someone needing such a common article of clothing, and find one that fits me.”

“That is essentially correct, although any stock uniform would require some alterations to ensure a proper fit. However, most people do possess more than one uniform, lest one become damaged or soiled.”

Odo looked genuinely surprised for a moment, as if that had not occurred to him. “Very well. In that case, I believe two uniforms will be quite sufficient.”

“Perhaps,” Garak said. “However, I have observed that most people on this station maintain at least three standard uniforms and a dress uniform, along with undergarments, socks or stockings, and additional articles of clothing for their off-duty hours.”

Odo did not respond immediately. “I've never worn a dress uniform,” he pointed out. “I don't see any reason to start now. Two standard uniforms will be quite sufficient to begin with. I already have these garments for my off-duty hours,” Odo said, gesturing at the pajamas he wore. “And the other items are easily available from any replicator. When will you have the uniforms ready?”

Garak picked up his padd and scrolled through the list of outstanding tasks. The idea of finishing all of his outstanding orders before his enforced leave of absence began was appealing. Generally he took pride in meeting his customers' needs timely, but this time, the “reward” of entering a holding cell where he would be trapped for six months was unpleasant at best. Surely Odo would not know how long preparation of a uniform would take. “My dear Constable – ” he began, turning back to Odo.

 _Too late_ , he realized when he saw the security chief's dubious expression.

“You have three days,” Odo said.

“Very well. May I begin?” he queried, picking up a sizing scanner. After Odo nodded his consent, he took his measurements, confirming those he had already taken visually.

“Finished?” Odo asked impatiently.

“Indeed.”

“Thank you.” Odo inclined his head politely, and left the shop.

Garak locked the door behind him. “Computer, raise temperature to 34 degrees and reduce lighting by thirty percent,” he ordered, deciding to ignore, for the moment, the cost of the extra power. He stepped into the store-room, took out a uniform approximately Odo's size, and added it to a stack of alterations.

He sat down, closed his eyes, and waited for the room to reach a suitable temperature.

The warmth helped a bit. His head ached less, and the tremor in his hands disappeared. Still, he knew his focus would not be at its best.

He would start with his simplest tasks.

Garak took out the supplies and materials he needed, and got to work on his stack of simple mending.


	15. Chapter 15

Odo considered returning to his quarters after his consultation with Garak. He looked ridiculous, walking about in blue pajamas. He should have insisted that Garak provide him with a uniform, even if it didn't quite fit properly. However, he suspected Garak would have refused. If so, he would have accomplished little other than wasting time and annoying the tailor, who already seemed somewhat agitated.

Odo knew Garak to be as attentive to detail and dedicated to his duty as he himself was.

The tailor rarely allowed a customer to take any but properly fitting garments from his shop. A few times, though, Odo had seen him take pity on a customer who was clearly ill at ease in his presence but had no other recourse for suitable clothing, and allow them to flee with their finished, but not yet fully adjusted, garments.

Odo had heard more than one of those customers later complain about an improper fit. He certainly had no intention of becoming such a customer. He could wait until Garak had the time to prepare his uniform properly.

He decided not to return to his quarters just yet, despite his attire. Instead, he made his way to Quark's. He was not officially on duty, but there was no reason to allow that or the lack of a proper uniform to prevent him from fulfilling his duty.

Part of that duty, of course, was to see what Quark was up to.

Odo knew Quark had exaggerated when he announced that he expected to own the station by the time Odo got back and that his profits from smuggling would increase by sixty percent, but it was nonetheless his duty to investigate.

“Odo!” Quark exclaimed, looking up from the counter he was wiping clean and grinning with evident delight. “I heard you're a Hu-man now, but nobody told me you're a _civilian!”_

“I'm still the Chief of Security of this station, Quark,” Odo said, feigning irritation. “That has not changed.”

“Then why are you wearing … whatever that is you're wearing?”

“They're called _pajamas._ I'm wearing them because Doctor Bashir had an extra set on board the _Defiant_ , and because I do not yet have an actual uniform.”

Quark set aside his cleaning rag. “Well, go ask Garak. I'm sure he's got plenty of uniforms he can alter to fit you.”

“I did ask Garak. He told me he'll have it in three days.”

“Three days? To alter a uniform?”

“He says he has other work to complete.”

“You're not convinced.”

Odo inclined his head. “This morning, he seemed … well, I don't believe he had his mind on his work. He does not seem to have recovered yet from his fight with Worf.”

“Wait a minute. You're saying _Garak_ got in a fight with _Worf?”_ Quark put away the polished glass and turned his full attention to Odo. “This I've got to hear!”

“There's not much I can tell,” Odo admitted. “I wasn't there at the time.”

Quark waited expectantly.

Odo sighed. “Garak tried to take control of the Defiant's weapons so he could destroy the Founders. Worf stopped him. Garak attacked Worf; Worf fought back. They were both injured, and Garak suffered a concussion.”

“Then what happened?”

“Worf confined Garak to quarters. Garak tried to escape. Worf brought him to Sickbay, stunned him, and – ”

“Wait a minute. Worf got Garak go to Sickbay, and _then_ he stunned him?”

“That's what I heard.”

“That doesn't make sense. Why would Worf stun him when he was already exactly where he wanted him to be? And why was Garak in Sickbay, anyway? Even Doctor Bashir can't get him to agree to go to the infirmary, not even when he's practically dying, like when that thing in his head broke down.”

“I saw him in the infirmary back then,” Odo pointed out.

“Yes, I'm sure you did, but that's because Doctor Bashir had him transported there after he collapsed right here in this bar.”

“Did you poison him?” Odo asked in his most serious voice.

“Of course not!” Quark protested immediately. “I sold him perfectly good _kanar_ , and he was … well, he wasn't exactly _fine_ , but he wasn't any worse than when he came in, except drunker. And then Bashir tried to get him to go to the infirmary, and he got upset, and, well, I don't know exactly what happened. It looked like his headache got really bad, and he had a seizure or something, and he collapsed. But it had nothing to do with the _kanar_!”

Odo inclined his head, acknowledging Quark's point. “I'm sure something else was your fault. Is there anything you would like to tell me? Or will I have to discover it when I review the security logs?”

“Odo, I'm appalled! How can you assume I'd be up to any nefarious purpose? I'm an honest businessman!”

“We'll see,” Odo said. “At least you haven't taken over the entire station.”

“Not yet,” Quark said with a grin. He returned to cleaning glasses. After a minute or two, he turned back to Odo. “So, when are _you_ getting back to work?” he asked.

“I _am_ back at work. I'm simply not yet in uniform.”

“All right,” Quark said, evidently tiring of the subject. “So. Garak attacked Worf to stop Worf from stopping him from blowing up the Great Link.”

“That's right,” Odo acknowledged.

“Too bad they didn't fight here. I could've taken bets!” Quark raised his hands dramatically as if holding up a banner. “The Starfleet Klingon Warrior versus the Cardassian Assassin. It has a certain ring to it.”

“Perhaps, but not a lot of accuracy. Worf may be a Starfleet officer and a Klingon, but Garak isn't an assassin. He's just a 'plain, simple tailor'.”

Quark waved his hands placatingly. “Of course he is!” He reached for a glass and picked up his polishing cloth. “So you think he'll be all right?”

“Doctor Bashir treated his injuries when he returned to the _Defiant,_ but apparently a concussion cannot be fully healed by technological means. It could be awhile, but yes, Quark. I think he'll be able to finish your clothing. Eventually.”

Quark narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Eventually? What do you mean, 'eventually'?”

“I don't know, Quark. Like I said, Garak was back at work this morning, but he did not look well. I doubt he'll be working with his usual efficiency over the next few days. He may have given himself a fairly wide window for that reason.”

A brief expression of horror crossed Quark's face.

“Quark?” Odo questioned.

“Oh, it's nothing,” Quark deflected. “It's just, if Garak _can't_ work, I'll be stuck wearing this for days!” he gestured angrily at his colorful tunic and trousers.

“And what's wrong with 'this'?” Odo asked.

“Nothing at all. These are perfectly good garments! But they're all I've got, except for some of Rom's old clothes.”

“I see. Well, it is possible that you will have a very long wait.”

“What are you talking about? I thought you said he'll be fine!”

“I said I think he'll be able to finish your clothing. Eventually. But he only has three days.”

Quark almost dropped the glass. He fumbled to hold it, and set it down. “What?! Starfleet is going to _execute_ him?!” he asked, horrified. “That's … that's barbaric!”

“Of course they're not going to execute him. They're going to _incarcerate_ him. For six months.”

“Well, I suppose that's better than execution, but it's still ridiculous! Six months, for attacking Worf? Worf probably welcomed the opportunity for a 'glorious battle'.”

“A fight with a tailor is not a glorious battle,” Odo said witheringly. “Garak is being incarcerated for attempted sabotage of the weapons systems and for his intent to annihilate my people, not just for attacking Worf.”

“That was self defense, Odo! You said the Founder told him he was dead, and Cardassia was dead, or doomed, or whatever it was she said.”

“It was an attempted pre-emptive strike.”

“So why six months?”

“Probably because Captain Sisko was angry with him. Garak tried to take control of his ship, to destroy the planet while he was on it.”

“Wait a minute. Garak was going to destroy the planet while Sisko was on it?”

“Sisko, Doctor Bashir, and myself, yes.”

Quark snorted. “No wonder Worf managed to stop him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If Garak really wanted to destroy the planet, don't you think he would have made sure no one would stop him?”

“I would have thought so.”

“But he let himself get caught! If he'd planned this, he would've made sure no one could stop him. He would've stunned everyone on the ship. Or killed everyone. Or locked them in their quarters. Or something! But it sounds like he just went in to wherever he went and started altering the weapons system.”

“Yes, but when Worf stopped him, he tried to talk Worf into helping him.”

“Well, of course he did. But that doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't it?”

“Of course not! He was scared, Odo. He wanted to protect his people, and he tried the only thing he could think of at the moment: trying to do exactly what the Obsidian Order tried to do last year.”

“People don't destroy entire planets because they're scared, Quark. He was _furious_ _.”_

“Well, I'm sure that's true, too. The Dominion killed hundreds of his people! But don't you think if he just wanted vengeance, he'd have tried something months ago?”

“Maybe he didn't have the opportunity.”

“He didn't look for the opportunity! Odo, if he wanted revenge, he'd have planned something long ago. Maybe he would have planned to do exactly what he did, but if he'd planned it, he'd have made sure it succeeded. And he would have made sure it succeeded without hurting Doctor Bashir. Odo, Garak would never plan to kill him.”

“Of course not. Who would join him for lunchtime arguments, if not the good doctor?”

“I'm serious, Odo. Garak cares about him. He wouldn't want him hurt.”

“He knew Bashir was on the planet, Quark. Even if he hadn't known before, Worf told him.”

Quark stared at Odo, astonished. “Really? What did Garak say to that?”

“He said they'll die.”

“And then what?”

“He said the Jem'Hadar would realize what they were doing, and kill them too, but it would be worth it because it would save the Alpha Quadrant.”

Quark nodded solemnly. “Garak wanted a hero's sacrifice,” he said.

“I suppose,” Odo said doubtfully.

“You know, that's interesting. A hero's sacrifice sounds … Klingon.” Quark shrugged and picked up another glass to wipe clean. “Well, I for one am glad Garak didn't succeed. Now he's back on Deep Space Nine, with no harm done.”

“No lasting harm,” Odo corrected.

“No lasting harm,” Quark acknowledged. “So now he can get back to work and make my new clothes. And yours,” he added quickly. He looked around the bar, no doubt checking to see if any customer was ready for his attention. Not seeing anyone, he turned back to Odo.

“So. When do you think he'll have our clothes ready?” he asked.

“I have no idea, but maybe you should remind Garak you're awaiting new garments. Surely he'll immediately get back to work with his usual speed, skill, and accuracy,” Odo said sarcastically.

“Maybe I should,” Quark replied. “He'd better, if he's only got a few days until Sisko has him shipped off to prison.”

“Sisko's not shipping him anywhere,” Odo corrected. “He's staying right here, in a holding cell.”

“Really?” Quark asked, visibly brightening.

“Yes, but he's not going to be _sewing_ in a holding cell.”

“Why not? You could get him a table or something, and he can bring his own tools.”

“It's a holding cell, Quark. A prison. Not a tailor's shop.”

“True, but doesn't the Federation have rules about prisons? They're not allowed cruel punishment, or something?”

“'Cruel and unusual' punishment. That's right.”

“Well, keeping Garak locked up would be cruel and unusual punishment!”

“How's that?” Odo asked.

“Garak is a loyal Cardassian citizen, Odo!”

“Garak is an _exiled_ Cardassian citizen. He must have been exiled for a reason.”

Quark waved that away. “He probably got on the wrong side of someone with too much power,” he said dismissively. “But he's a Cardassian, and Cardassians value service to the State. How much service can he possibly provide to Cardassia if he's locked up in a holding cell?”

“How much help can he be to Cardassia as an exiled tailor on a Federation-Bajoran space station?”

“I don't know, but he does keep his eyes and ears open.”

“I suppose that's true.”

Quark nodded. “So if they're really going to follow their own requirements, they'll have to let him work!”

“In a holding cell?”

“That's up to you, isn't it? You could let him work in his shop for a couple of hours a day, if you don't want him to work in the holding cell. You can assign security to watch him. Or he can work in a holosuite!”

“That would certainly be more profitable for you.”

Quark grinned. “Yes, it would!”

A trio of engineers on their lunch break waved for Quark's attention. Quark nodded and gestured that he would be there shortly.

“Let me know if I can provide a workspace, and we can discuss the schedule and payment,” Quark said, turning to attend to his customers.

“Thank you.”

Odo returned to his office. He might not be officially working, but that need not prevent him from updating himself on the happenings around the station, at the present or during his absence.


	16. Chapter 16

Julian finished the article he was reading and checked his chronometer, for the eleventh time in the last fifteen minutes. It was already 13:47.

Garak was seventeen minutes late.

 _He's probably just busy with a customer. Or maybe he forgot. He does have a lot on his mind_ , Julian told himself. _But what if something is wrong?_

Garak was probably still in a lot of pain, and of course he was upset by what the Founder said to him.

He was not known for his restraint or his wonderful decision-making skills when he was in pain or upset.

Julian tapped his combadge. “Computer, locate Garak.”

“Tailor Garak is in Garak's Clothiers,” the computer replied.

“Thank you.” Julian rose and hurried to Garak's shop. The door was shut, and the _Open_ sign was not illuminated, but a faint light shone through the window. Julian peered through.

Garak was standing at his worktable, holding a sewing wand over the sleeve of a Bajoran security uniform. It took a moment for Julian to realize that Garak didn't seem to be moving the sewing wand or the fabric. He was just standing there, and he hadn't noticed Julian's presence. He wouldn't have heard his footsteps through the closed door, of course, but Garak was usually very much aware, visually, of what was going on around him.

He should have noticed him.

Julian tapped lightly at the door.

Garak didn't respond.

Julian tapped again, louder.

Garak jerked his head up, startled. He covered it quickly, and motioned Julian to come in.

“May I assist you, my dear Doctor? Are you in need of a new uniform, or a new costume for one of your holosuite excursions, perhaps?”

 _The words are fine,_ Julian thought. _But he seems … off._ He looked closer, trying not to be obvious about it. Garak's scales were pale, his pupils constricted despite the dim light, his posture tense, his respirations rapid and shallow.

“Maybe another time. I don't need anything now,” Julian replied. “I just wanted to see if you're all right. It's not like you to miss lunch.”

Garak glanced at the padd on his worktable. A horrified expression flashed across his face.

“My apologies. I … seem to have lost track of the time.”

“That's quite all right. But are _you_ all right?”

“I am fine,” Garak said quickly.

“Fine,” Julian repeated dubiously. He stared at Garak and waited.

Garak looked away. “A mere headache, Doctor. It is not a problem.”

“What – ” Julian stopped. Garak would not appreciate questioning, and he wouldn't give an honest answer. Besides, it was obvious. His headache had been severe enough that he had taken some sort of narcotic, but not enough to be entirely effective.

Julian sighed. It would be so much easier, if Garak would just admit when he wasn't feeling well and ask for help, or even if he would accept help when it was offered. He knew what Garak would say if he suggested medical treatment, and he could not force the issue. Garak was not a Starfleet officer. But he could offer. “Garak, it could be a problem. You have a concussion. I did what I could to repair the damage, but it is possible I missed something. I'd like to run a scan to make sure I didn't.”

“No. But thank you for your kind offer.”

“You don't have to come to the infirmary. I can bring a medical tricorder here. It wouldn't tell me much, but I could run a cursory scan, and –”

Garak's eyes went cold with fury. “You will _not_!” he snarled.

“It was just a suggestion, Garak,” Julian said quietly.

“It was not _just_ anything!” Garak closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, the icy fury was gone. “It was the beginning of an interminable series of suggestions.” His voice sounded almost calm. “My answer is no. I will not go to the infirmary. I do not wish to be scanned. I need to get back to work. Again, I do apologize for missing lunch. Now, if you will excuse me?” Garak gave a short bow and a fleeting glance in lieu of his usual intense eye contact, and returned his attention to the garment on his work table.

“All right. I'll drop the subject, but do let me know if I could get you something for your headache, or if there's anything else I can do.”

“Thank you.” Garak's voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

 _That's better than fury, I suppose._ “Lunch tomorrow instead?” Julian asked, changing the subject.

Garak flicked his eyes over the garments neatly stacked on the shelves and hung on the rack beside his worktable. Julian thought he caught a flash of panic on his face, for just a moment.

“Garak? What is it?”

“My dear Doctor, perhaps you are not aware, but in less than three days I … I will be forced to close my shop.”

“You'll open it again.”

Garak sighed. “Perhaps, but it will not be much of a business if I cannot fulfill my commitments in a timely manner. No customer will wait six months for a requested commission, let alone a simple repair or alteration.”

“That's probably true, but why would they have to wait six months?”

Garak looked at him incredulously. “You have not heard _why_ I will be closing my shop? You've not heard of my upcoming … change of residence?”

“Yes. I have. But nobody's going to keep you in a cell for six months with nothing to do! You'll be allowed to work.”

“Unlikely, Doctor. My work involves … sharp implements. I would be surprised if the captain would entrust me with such items at this time.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, Garak. You didn't pick up some random weapon and start stabbing people. You tried to preemptively destroy a sworn enemy of your people! That's not the same thing.”

Garak inclined his head. “Thank you, Doctor. I am gratified for your understanding. Unfortunately, you are in charge of neither the station nor its security. Those who are would appear to have very different opinions.”

“Perhaps, but you'll still be allowed to work, even if it's only for an hour or two while someone watches to make sure you're not carving anti-Dominion graffiti on the walls.”

“Graffiti?” Garak asked, puzzled.

And genuinely curious, Julian guessed. “Illegal artwork, on Earth. The term comes, indirectly, from the word for writing in a Terran language called Greek, and directly from an Italian word for “scratched” derived from the Greek. It refers to drawings and writings people used to do on public property without permission. Some of it was intended to offend certain groups of people.”

“Interesting. On Cardassia, art, on public property, is a regimented state function. Permission is absolutely imperative.” Garak tilted his head slightly and raised his eye-ridges, challenging Julian to rebut his argument.

Julian nodded. He was about to reply, when he realized something. For the first time since the … incident, Garak seemed genuinely interested in their discussion. He looked a little better, too. He was breathing easier, and the sickly whitish-gray of his scales had darkened into a shade approaching his usual medium gray color.

Garak raised his head and looked at Julian suspiciously.

“It's the same on Earth, actually,” Julian said quickly. “I mean, artists need to get permission to place their art in public places. But usually it's just a formality and a way to keep track of who's going to display what, and where.”

“That is sensible.”

“So, what art does the State approve of on Cardassia?” Julian asked, grasping at a way to extend the conversation just a little longer.

“Sculpture, and architecture, mostly.” Garak spoke quietly, not looking at Julian. “My … father … maintained such a place, in the Tarlak Sector of Cardassia City.”

Julian didn't know what to say. Garak had never spoken of his family before.

“Thank you for stopping by, Doctor,” Garak said with a cheerfulness Julian could tell was feigned. He recognized the words as the dismissal Garak obviously intended.

“You're quite welcome,” Julian replied. “Would you join me for dinner later?”

Garak raised his eye-ridges. Julian couldn't read his expression. Surprise, perhaps. Or shock.

“Perhaps another day. I'm really not hungry.”

“You need to eat something.”

“Indeed.” Garak's voice was remarkably unenthusiastic.

Julian suspected either the narcotic or the headache was adversely affecting his appetite. “Well, if you decide to join me later, please, let me know. If you haven't the … the time for a lengthy meal, we could eat here. Or, I suppose I could just bring you an odoriferous glass of _rokassa_ juice.”

Garak actually smiled at that. “Thank you, Doctor. And I could offer you a revoltingly sweet replicated Tarkalean tea.”

“Perfect! In that case, either way, I'll see you later. And remember to rest. You don't need to finish everything today. Don't work for more than another half-hour, maximum. Doctor's orders. And please do let me know if I can get you anything for your headache.”

Garak dipped his head. “Until later, Doctor,” he said, completely evading all of Julian's suggestions. He gave him a flicker of a smile and turned back to the uniform on his work table.

Julian watched for a moment as Garak pieced together two of the pieces and, with steady competence, ran the sewing rod over both.

Garak did not look well. He was still pale, his eyes were narrowed and his body tense with pain, but he was definitely calmer and more focused, and there was absolutely nothing else Julian could do for him, not unless he chose to consent to medical care.

Julian considered stopping by the infirmary, where he might encounter a potential patient or two who might actually appreciate his services, but elected not to. He was, after all, supposed to take the day off. Technically, it was the previous night he was to have taken off, but the runabout accident had made that impossible. But if Nurse Jabara was on duty, as she would be unless her schedule had been changed without his knowledge, she would order him off duty as soon as she saw him enter the infirmary.

Instead, he returned to his quarters. He powered up his computer terminal and accessed Starfleet's medical database. He would find nothing new there about the Teplan Blight, let alone detailed information pertaining to how it progressed from initial infection through the terminal stage, the Quickening for which the disease was commonly named. But, this blight was not the only disease known for a protracted dormancy period. Earth's leprosy, tuberculosis, _varicella zoster_ virus, and HIV/AIDS, the Vulcan Bendii and Pa'nar Syndromes, and Altarian encephalitis were just a few conditions with some parallels. The Human diseases had been cured so long ago, and the others were so rare, he had not yet taken the time to read detailed accounts of the etiology of their progression from initiation of the infection or process to lethal exacerbation – or, in the case of _varicella,_ from initial infection to latency to later reactivation – but perhaps there had been treatments, prior to the development of cures, to delay the progression or make reactivation less likely.

He had not yet had any success developing a cure, other than the fetal vaccine that, so far, seemed to be effective. But Jabara was absolutely right; a method of inducing dormancy, or maintaining existing dormancy, would be equally beneficial. It would not be ideal; he would much prefer to address the underlying infection and cure the disease entirely. But delaying the Quickening would lengthen the life span of the Teplan people and enhance the quality of their lives.

It was worth a try. He could always return, later, to researching a potential cure. And, fortunately, he was no longer the only doctor or researcher working on the problem. A small team of Vulcan and Human scientists had recently begun a study of the viral DNA and a Human team was studying his original antigen to determine if there was a way they could modify it so as to create a vaccine effective for all life stages.

Julian activated a padd, pulled up the first article, listed chronologically, and settled in to read about leprosy and the _Mycobacterium leprae_ bacteria that caused it.


	17. Chapter 17

The day seemed interminable. Garak spent most of his time in his shop, trying to ignore his headache, which worsened progressively as the last vestiges of triptacederine wore off. It was unfortunate he'd only brought the one dose to his shop. He had work to do. Couldn't take the time to return to his quarters now.

His ability to focus was by now entirely inadequate for any challenging work, but he worked diligently on the stacks of mending, and he was making steady progress. He finished the first stack and all but two items, a pair of leggings with a ripped knee and an oddly patterned Federation-style shirt in need of two replacement buttons, before the room started to spin.

“Garak! Sit down,” a Bajoran voice snapped.

Garak looked up blearily. He hadn't noticed anyone enter the shop.

Odd.

Kira was difficult to not notice.

Between the violent red of her uniform and the fiery aggression of her demeanor, she was quite noticeable.

“Sit down!” Kira said again. Her voice sounded different. Unfamiliar. The swirling beige and brown were getting closer.

Beige and brown? Not Kira, then. Security. One of Odo's security deputies.

Getting closer. Too close.

He took a step backwards.

His head was throbbing abominably now, and the entire room was spinning.

A whirling kaleidoscope of beige and brown and gray and too-bright white light.

A hand pressed down on his shoulder.

Much too familiar a gesture, that. He hissed and tried to push the offending hand away.

Another hand on his other shoulder.

Falling.

He flailed. Tried to catch his balance.

Hands grabbing him. Controlling his fall.

A chair.

His fall averted.

He closed his nictitating membranes against the whirling colors.

No effect.

Closed his eyes.

Tried to catch his breath.

Ignored the hands.

Ignored the incomprehensible voice.

The hands withdrew.

He opened his eyes. No change. Everything whirling around him.

Closed his eyes again.

Tried to control his breathing.

Waited for the pain to dissipate.

Another voice. Deeper. Different accent. No, different ... language? Dialect?

He listened.

Dakhuri Bajoran. Odo's deputy, probably.

And Federation Standard, in a familiar lilting accent.

Ah. Julian.

He opened his eyes. Turquoise and black, whirling about amongst the beige and brown and gray.

A touch of cold metal on his neck.

He gasped and tried to bat it away.

The metal device pressed, hissed, withdrew.

A hypospray, then.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed. Slowly.

Waited.

The intense throbbing of his head faded. His racing heart slowed.

He opened his eyes. The colors remained solid. Still.

Julian stood nearby, talking quietly with Odo.

He didn't understand their words.

Too tired to try.

He reached up and activated his Universal Translator.

The incomprehensible Bajoran and Federation Standard words shifted into comprehensible Kardasi.

Better.

They were talking about him. Julian wanted to bring him to the infirmary.

Odo agreed.

Not so good.

“I do not need to go to the infirmary,” Garak said. His voice trembled; his words came out somewhat slurred.

Julian would not notice. Not unless he secretly spoke Kardasi.

Odo _would_ notice.

Garak tried again. “I do not require medical care,” he said carefully, in Standard. His words sounded too formal. Overly enunciated. But no longer slurred.

Julian looked at him. “You require _rest_ , Garak. What were you thinking, working a full day, less than three days after you got a concussion?”

_What? Thinking of working? Of course he was. It was the hour for work. He had work to complete._

“Never mind. Garak?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you have a place to lie down in your shop?”

Garak opened his eyes.

Had he shut them? It appeared so.

He looked at the chronometer. “The shop, it is open for two and a half hours more. I need to work.”

“No. Not today,” Julian said.

Garak ignored him. He pushed himself up to a standing position, leaning only slightly on his work table. After a moment, he straightened and reached for the leggings and his sewing rod.

Warm hands took his. “Not today,” Julian insisted.

“Jul ... Doctor. I have remaining a few pieces more to mend, also several stacks of alterations. Several commissions. For Quark, an entire wardrobe. Little more than two days to complete them all,” he explained, wincing at the blatant distress in his voice.

He took a breath and schooled his features into a calm, neutral mask.

“I'm sorry, Garak, but you're not fit for work right now,” Bashir said.

Garak glared. “I am perfectly fine.”

“No. You're not. You may be well enough to work by tomorrow, if you rest tonight. If you don't rest, I guarantee you will not be. Now. Do you have a place to lie down here, or shall I have you beamed to the infirmary?”

“Will you leave me _alone?_ I do not to the infirmary need to go! I am perfect fine! And I am not … I have not now time for to waste.” Garak pulled his hands free and picked up his sewing wand.

Bashir tapped his combadge. “Bashir to Ops,” he began. He raised his eyebrows and stared at Garak, who was scowling down at his trembling hands.

“Kira here,” the tinny voice came over Bashir's com badge.

Garak sank down into the chair. “Very well,” he said, defeated. “I will … take a break.”

Bashir nodded. “Good. Never mind, Major,” he said. “Belay that.”

“All right. Is everything okay?” Kira's voice, somewhat concerned.

“Yes,” Bashir replied. “A medical situation, but it's under control.”

“All right. Kira out.”

Bashir tapped his badge and closed the channel.

Garak turned his attention to the stacks.

Only one complete, the first stack of basic mending. The alterations untouched. The commissioned pieces, he had not even looked at.

He _must_ get back to work. There was no other way to finish before … there was no other way to finish.

But how could he work with the room closing in on him?

He closed his eyes against the encroaching walls.

His throat was tight. He couldn't swallow. He couldn't breathe.

“Garak?” Doctor Bashir's voice. A hand on his arm.

He flinched. Pulled his arm away.

Bashir ignored that. “Do you have a place to lie down in your back room?” he asked. His voice was calm. Gentle.

Garak nodded.

A mistake, that. Pain lanced through his skull.

Unexpected.

Can't mask it.

He hisses in pain, rubs his head.

The room, spinning, faster, faster. The colors swirling into each other. Turning gray.

Another hypospray. Hands pressing him down. The floor cold under his hands. He shivers.

Someone lifts him. Two someones. They carry him, not far. Lay him down on a flexible surface. A cot, perhaps.

A blanket covers him.

He tries to open his eyes.

Too tired.

He gives up, allows his eyes to stay closed.

Sinks into sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

“Bashir to infirmary.”

“Excuse me a moment,” Jabara said to her patient. She stepped aside and tapped her combadge. “Jabara here, Doctor.”

“I'm taking the rest of the day off. I'll be in Garak's shop if you need anything.”

“Understood. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Please.” Bashir rattled off a short list of medications and supplies. Nothing that would be needed urgently.

“All right. I'm finishing up with a patient at the moment, but I'll bring it by in about fifteen minutes.”

“That's fine. Thank you, Jabara.”

“You're welcome.” _Now that is interesting,_ Jabara thought as she cleaned her hands before returning to her patient. Doctor Bashir certainly made house calls, but they were always for the purposes of diagnosis and treatment – not for staying with and caring for a patient.

The last time the doctor had taken time from work to care for a patient had been almost two years ago – and it had been the same patient. A patient for whom the doctor had risked his life to seek information from a former head of the Obsidian Order, on a planet deep within Cardassian space.

Interesting.

Her hands appropriately cleansed, she returned to her patient.

“I apologize,” she said with a smile.

“Not a problem,” Jadzia replied. “Now I wonder what the good doctor might be up to, taking an unplanned day off.”

“He's with a patient,” Jabara explained, activating the dermal regenerator and addressing the first of several lacerations and contusions Jadzia had recently received in the holosuite.

“So I hear,” Jadzia said with a mischievous smile.

Apparently Jabara wasn't the only one curious about the doctor's most interesting … friendship. “Mr Garak is … not fond of the infirmary,” she offered. “Dr Bashir has been known to make … _house_ _calls_ , I believe is the term ... for such patients.”

“Really.”

“I cannot tell you specifics, Commander, but I can tell you Garak has not yet recovered from his injuries. There is no doubt that Dr Bashir is providing medical care.” That was entirely true. And it did not explain at all why Bashir had decided to personally provide such care.

Jadzia's smile faded. “Worf didn't mean to hurt him seriously. He was only trying to stop him from … what he was trying to do.”

“I know.” She also knew Garak, not Worf, had attacked first, though of course she couldn't speak of that. Garak was her patient. “Is Worf all right?” she asked instead.

“He's fine. A little sore maybe, but nothing he'll admit to.”

Jabara chuckled. “He and Garak have that in common.” She finished the repair of the last contusion and deactivated the regenerator. “I am through.”

“Thank you, Elys.”

“You're welcome. I do have a request.”

“What is it?”

Jabara smiled. “There is this remarkably useful feature of modern holosuite technology with which all of Quark's facilities are equipped. You may consider making use of it.”

“The safeties,” Jadzia said, frowning. “Yes, I know. But where's the fun in that?”

“That's entirely up to you. It's not up to me what you might choose to do with your time when you don't have to spend it in the infirmary undergoing medical treatment.”

Jadzia laughed. “I suppose you have a point. I'm on duty this afternoon anyway. It'll probably be a few days before I get another chance to spend some time in a holosuite.”

“With the safeties _on,_ Commander,” Jabara advised, slipping back into the formality of the medical professional – patient relationship.

“We'll see,” Jadzia said, her eyes twinkling. She hopped down from the biobed, picked up her _bat'leth,_ and took her leave.

Jabara hurried to collect the supplies and medications Bashir had requested. She let Ensign Hsi know she was stepping out, and made her way down the Promenade to _Garak's Clothiers_.

The shop was closed, and no one was visible in the front room.

Jabara opened a channel. “Doctor, I have the materials you requested.”

“Oh! Yes, thank you, Nurse Jabara! Just a moment. Let me get the door.”

Bashir rushed in from the back room and hurriedly unlocked and opened the door.

“How is Garak?” Jabara asked, stepping inside with the supplies.

Bashir's face fell.

Jabara kept her own face expressionless, masking her amusement at Bashir's total inability to hide his emotions.

“He's … not well. He's just too damned stubborn! It takes time to recover from a head injury, especially when it goes untreated for _hours,_ but three days later, he's back at work, trying to work a full shift!”

Jabara nodded. That did not surprise her. Garak was definitely a dedicated worker. “What happened?”

“I don't know exactly, but Odo's security people said he had been working, and he just ... stopped. One of the deputies went to check on him, and he collapsed. By the time I arrived, he was semi-conscious, but non-responsive. He was having some trouble breathing, and he was in a lot of pain. I provided an analgesic and a sedative. It shouldn't have been enough to anaesthetize him, but he … I don't think he's had a lot of sleep lately. ”

“How is he now?”

“He's stable,” Julian said simply. He nodded toward the back room. He took one of the bags and led the way.

Garak lay on a cot in the narrow aisle between shelves, either asleep or unconscious. He was pale, except for the deep shadows under his eyes, but his breathing was regular and at a rate she would expect for an adult Cardassian at rest.

Julian reached into the bag and withdrew the equipment he needed. He applied a neural caliper to Garak's head and a portable life signs monitor to his hand.

The tailor didn't stir.

Jabara set the other bag down on the table beside the cot.

“Thank you,” Julian said.

“You're welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me, Doctor, I'd best return to my duties.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Jabara inclined her head and took her leave.

 _They make an interesting pair,_ she mused as she walked back to the infirmary. If she had guessed, when she first met the young doctor, whom he might have befriended, the older tailor with the problematic past would not have been on her list at all. Jadzia Dax, perhaps. They shared a youthful enthusiasm, for all that the Trill was actually over three hundred years of age. Or perhaps Rom or one of the Starfleet engineers. Yet Jabara rarely saw Bashir spend time, outside of work, with anyone other than Garak.

It was not what she would have expected, but it seemed to work. They obviously enjoyed each other's company, and there was no doubt the doctor cared about the Cardassian.

Jabara suspected the feeling was mutual. More than once, when Julian had been injured or unwell, she had detected a shadow moving through the infirmary's computer logs, accessing Julian's files. She'd caught nothing more than glimpses of codes that seemed Cardassian in origin, and she had no proof of who it was, but she had her suspicions.

The infirmary door slid open, and Jabara stepped inside.

The room was empty.

“Ensign?” she called.

The young Human stepped out of the lab. “I'm back here. I finished placing the orders, and I was just recording the readings on Dr. Bashir's antiviral tests.”

“Do any of the compounds show promise?”

“Not yet, but he just begun the tests on three of them a few hours ago.”

Jabara nodded. “I take it we've no patients?”

“None. We've got a few annual physicals scheduled, but nothing until 08:00 tomorrow. How's Dr. Bashir's patient?”

“Concussed and exhausted. He's about as good at making himself rest when he doesn't want to as Dr Bashir.”

Ensign Hsi laughed. “You say that as if _you_ don't share that trait, Jabara.”

Jabara smiled. “True enough, but as I am neither concussed nor exhausted, I am quite capable of finishing my shift.”

“We've got no patients. I'm almost through with the documentation on Dr. Bashir's tests. Everything's been cleaned, all the supplies and meds ordered. You haven't actually got any work right now.”

“In that case, I'll catch up on my reading. Thank you, Ensign.”

Hsi nodded and returned to the lab. “Enjoy!” she called over her shoulder.

“I intend to!” Jabara said. She ordered a cup of raktajino from the replicator, activated her padd, and settled in for a few hours of reading.


	19. Chapter 19

Pain. That's the first thing Garak noticed when he woke.

His head throbbed. His side ached. His throat was dry.

He opened his eyes to the well-stocked shelves and racks of his shop's store-room. He was in his shop, then. That was unfortunate. In his quarters, he had a hypospray and triptacederine. Well, he'd have to return to his quarters, then.

He pushed himself up, slowly, to a seated position.

A sharp pain spiked through his head, and receded slightly.

The room remained steady.

He looked around. He was seated on one of the cots he kept in his store-room.

“How are you feeling?”

Julian's voice.

Garak turned, slowly and carefully.

Julian was sitting near his cot, holding a padd, watching him.

“Better.” Garak grimaced at the hoarse scratchiness of his throat. “Thirsty.”

The Doctor rose immediately, set down his padd, walked to the replicator. “Tea or juice?” he asked.

He blinked. _Does it matter?_ “Either,” he said.

Bashir raised his eyebrows. “All right. Computer, one red leaf tea.”

Garak took the proffered cup. “Thank you.”

“You're quite welcome.”

The ersatz tea was pleasantly warm, if not quite as pleasant in flavor as genuine red leaf.

He finished the tea.

Bashir took the cup.

Garak thought of the stacks of work awaiting him. He should get up, get to work.

He wanted to sleep.

“What time is it?” he asked inanely. His padd was elsewhere. On his worktable, probably. Not visible from where he sat.

“Computer? Time?” Bashir asked aloud.

Garak sighed. He'd forgotten about the computer's voice controls.

“The time is 25:47,” the synthesized voice announced.

“Thank you,” Bashir said.

Garak raised his eye-ridges.

“It's polite, Garak,” Bashir said, a bit defensively.

“Indeed. No doubt the computer appreciates your courtesy.”

“Go back to sleep.”

 _“You_ look tired,” Garak deflected. Accurately.

“I'm fine.”

“Really?”

Bashir gave an odd half-smile. “Perfectly.” He shrugged. “I suppose I could use some sleep.”

“Good night, Doctor.”

“I'm not leaving now. I'll sleep later.”

“Sleep here. There's an extra cot, and extra bedding.” Garak nodded toward the cabinet where he kept supplies for a variety of unexpected occurrences.

“All right. Thank you.” Bashir looked at Garak closely.

Garak looked away.

“I'm giving you another dose,” the Doctor said.

Of course. Bashir would have a hypospray and triptacederine in his medical bag. But last time, he'd given him enough to make him sleep.

He couldn't sleep now. He really did need to get to work. Perhaps a smaller dose?

But he was tired. He didn't feel like working.

 _I'll return to work in the morning,_ he decided.

He said nothing.

Did not flinch when the doctor pressed the cold hypospray against his neck.

Allowed the doctor to help him lie down again.

Vaguely watched him gather bedding, set it up on the other cot.

He allowed his eyes to drift shut.

Julian said something he didn't quite catch. It sounded like “Good night, Elim.”

“Good night, Julian,” he replied.


	20. Chapter 20

When Garak next woke, the previous day's headache was still present, but faded to a dull ache.

He sat up and winced at the twinge in his ribs.

Julian was there, still asleep, the light blanket he'd taken half on the cot, half dangling off and lying on the floor.

Garak stood, moving slowly, his balance still feeling somewhat precarious.

He washed up and combed his disheveled hair into a semblance of order.

Julian was awake when he returned, looking around anxiously.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Garak said brightly. “Tea?”

“Er, yes. Please.”

“Computer, one Tarkalean tea, extra sweet, and one _rokassa_ juice.” He took the cups from the replicator, brought the Doctor his tea, and sat down with his juice.

“You're looking better this morning,” Bashir said. “How are you feeling?”

“I am perfectly … I am … all right.” Garak corrected himself, remembering what Bashir said about the phrase “perfectly fine.”

Bashir grinned. “I'm glad to hear it,” he said.

Garak finished his juice and put the cup in the reclaimer. “Well. I have work to do. Thank you for your company, Doctor.”

“You should eat something first.”

“The juice was sufficient.”

Julian looked at him closely.

Garak allowed a trace of irritation to show.

Bashir noticed. “All right,” he said inanely. He turned his attention to his still-steaming tea and took a sip. “You don't seem to need the stronger analgesic this morning. Do you need a milder one?”

Garak tilted his head. “Analgesic?” he deflected, though he was familiar with the term.

“Standard medical terminology for a painkiller.”

“Ah. No, not at the moment.”

Bashir looked at him skeptically. A lecture was, no doubt, imminent.

“A glass of _kanar_ before I begin my work will suffice.”

Julian sighed. “I suppose that could work. However – ”

Garak sighed. “Yes, Doctor. I should rest, eat something, take it easy, and stop work before it becomes essential to do so,” he said, trying to stave off the lecture.

Bashir inclined his head. “Precisely,” he said. He finished his tea and discarded the cup. “I'd best go. I've got to be in the infirmary in less than an hour. Lunch today?”

“Perhaps.”

Bashir's eyes narrowed. He opened his medical bag and withdrew a vial. He shook out two tablets. “For your headache,” he said. “It's best to take them before you really need them. They may not be much help otherwise.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Garak glanced again at the tablets, but did not move to take them.

“You're very welcome. ” Bashir took a small container from his bag, put the tablets inside, and set it on the workbench. Then he took out a hypospray and inserted a vial.

“Triptacederine,” Bashir answered Garak's unasked question. “I'm not injecting it now. You do _not_ need it yet. And I haven't put in a full dose. It's five milliliters. I'll leave it here, in case you need it later.”

“Thank you, but I do not require medication.”

“All right. I'll stop by during my lunch break. If you're hungry by then, we could eat together.”

Garak inclined his head. “I would be delighted,” he said, allowing a genuine smile.

Bashir returned the smile. Then he turned and walked away.

Garak waited until the shop door closed behind him to replicate a glass of _kanar._ He sipped it slowly, allowing himself a few more minutes of rest, waiting for the headache to dissipate a bit more.

Unfortunately, the _kanar_ had little effect.

Garak looked at the tablets and sighed. He returned to the replicator for a glass of water and swallowed both tablets. He considered taking the time to check the news, from Cardassia and the station, and decided against it. He had work to do; it would go better if he ignored the imminent … if he ignored what was going on.

By the time Garak made sure the door was locked and prepared his work station with tools he would need for his first task of the day, the medication had taken effect. Garak picked up his sewing rod and the leggings he hadn't mended the previous day, and got to work. 


	21. Chapter 21

Garak worked steadily, pleased with his progress. He'd already finished the last stack of mending and the first two alterations that morning. He paused for a moment, rubbing his temple and considering how much longer he should put off the triptacederine, when a motion outside the window caught his attention.

Quark.

The list of outstanding commissions from the Ferengi flashed across his mind. Four pairs of trousers. Four shirts. Two vests. Two tunics.

Tunics that would not be simple or quick to make.

There was no chance he could finish all before the beginning of his incarceration.

True, he was not obligated to finish any but two of the shirts and two pairs of the trousers this octet, but all were to be finished within two Terran months.

He had less than a day.

Quark tapped on the door.

Garak considered ignoring him. He focused his attention on the garment on the table, pausing just long enough to be sure the walls hadn't actually shifted closer.

They had not moved.

Quark pounded on the door.

Garak winced.

Quark was glaring at him. As soon as he noticed Garak's attention, he raised his hand to pound on the door again.

“Computer, lower temperature by fifteen percent and unlock door,” Garak said quickly. His voice trembled slightly.

He would have to control it better.

He looked up and gestured for the impatient Ferengi to enter.

“Garak! I hear you've had an eventful couple of days!” Quark said.

Garak tried to mask his flinch at the volume and speed of Quark's speech. He suspected he was not successful.

Quark's eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” Garak lied. He sank into a chair and politely gestured at another. “What can I do for you?”

Quark ignored the chair. “Nothing, from the looks of it,” he said. “You look terrible!”

Garak put on his inquisitor's mask and glared.

“Sorry, sorry. It's just … never mind. I understand you're about to experience a … change in circumstances.”

Garak allowed the mask to slip. “True,” he acknowledged. He waited, hoping Quark would get to the point quickly. He couldn't wait much longer for the hypospray.

“Should I call Doctor Bashir?”

“No,” he snarled.

Quark raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. “All right, all right.”

Garak forced his expression into his customer service smile. “Thank you,” he said with a slight nod.

“Any time. So. I have a business proposition for you,” Quark said. “I understand that you will not be opening your shop for … several months.”

“That is correct,” Garak said, somewhat pleased that his voice was steady.

Quark nodded. “You will not have the opportunity to work in the place you will be.”

Garak nodded tersely. Maintaining his calm façade was becoming increasingly difficult. He waited.

Apparently Quark was, uncharacteristically, waiting for him.

His lack of focus had clearly not gone unnoticed.

“I'm listening,” Garak said.

“All right.” Quark did not sound entirely convinced. “What I propose is simple. The Federation is prohibited from what it calls 'cruel and unusual punishment'.”

“Is it,” he said flatly. He didn't know if his sentence was “cruel and unusual” by Federation standards, but he could think of no worse punishment than the one he faced, except of course a longer sentence or a smaller, darker cell.

“I know, I know. But the Federation people also say they honor diversity in culture. “Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination”. I think that's how they put it.”

“That is a _Vulcan_ axiom, Quark. Not Federation.”

Quark scoffed and made a gesture waving off the distinction. “Vulcans are part of the Federation, Garak. So the concept does apply.”

The pounding in Garak's head grew stronger. The sound was drowned out by a strident ringing. _That's new,_ Garak thought. _Most unpleasant._ He could tell Quark was still talking, but his voice had receded. Garak had no idea what he was saying.

“Garak!”

A yell. Rather loud. Louder than the ringing.

He heard that.

Garak opened his eyes.

A worried face with very sharp teeth was looking at him.

A Ferengi.

A familiar Ferengi. Rom? No. Quark.

He was saying something.

“Hmm?”

“Are you sure you don't want me to get Doctor Bashir?”

“I'm fine. Just a headache.”

“Garak, you're about as fine as the weather on Ferenginar on the coldest winter day. But you don't want to see a doctor.” Quark waved his arms in a gesture of surrender. “All right. That's fine. How can I help?”

 _I don't need help_ , Garak considered saying. Decided against it. Quark wouldn't believe him.

“Tell me, or I'm calling the doctor.”

Garak inclined his head slightly. “You could … I have a … a hypospray. In the … back. On the table.”

Quark jumped up and darted into the other room.

Garak closed his eyes.

“Here it is.” Quark was standing beside him, holding the hypospray.

“Thank you.” Garak took the hypospray. Not waiting for privacy, he injected the contents, set the hypospray down on the table, and waited.

One metric. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The ringing softened. Vanished. The pain receded. Not much, but enough.

Garak opened his eyes.

Quark was watching him with unmasked concern and no apparent avarice.

Garak realized he had not even charged for the service of fetching the hypospray.

“My apologies,” Garak said. He did not offer an explanation.

Quark waved off the apology. He did not request an explanation.

“I'll come back later,” Quark announced.

“No. I could use a … distraction.”

Quark smiled. “All right. A distraction. Well, I have a business proposition for you.”

The words sounded vaguely familiar. Probably the Ferengi was repeating something he said before Garak completely lost his place.

“The Federation prohibits cruel and unusual punishment, right?” Quark asked. He was watching Garak closely. No doubt trying to see if he was actually listening this time.

“That is what they say.”

“So, you should tell Odo keeping you from your work would prevent you from pursuing profit. That would be an unacceptable form of discrimination against your culture, and it would be a form of cruel and unusual punishment!”

“Ah, of course! That is a perfect plan!” Garak said, feigning enthusiasm. “It requires only for Odo to confuse me with a Ferengi, and himself with a Starfleet officer, to be completely successful!”

“It requires no such thing,” Quark said scornfully. “Trust me on this, Garak. Captain Sisko expects Odo and all of his deputies to adhere to certain Federation standards.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “This is one of them.”

“Perhaps. But I'm not a Ferengi, Quark. I'm Cardassian. Cardassian culture does not emphasize the pursuit of profit.”

“Doesn't matter. Your people live to serve Cardassia. Well, most of you. A few just talk really loudly about serving Cardassia. So. Six months of serving no one? That would be like six months without pursuing profit to a Ferengi.”

Garak sighed. He could not disagree with that.

“Besides, you've lived on this station for years. You're not completely Cardassian in culture anymore. Of course, you could be again, any time you wanted to,” he added quickly, cringing just a little and backing away from Garak's glare. “But you read Hu-man literature! _And,_ you understand it! Surely you could convince Odo that you've taken on a few Ferengi characteristics as well. Besides, you're a member of the Merchant's Association, just like I am. You're a businessman! You know you'd almost have to start over if you close for six months.”

“I … am aware.” It was not an appealing thought.

“You should make the argument, Garak. Maybe not the first day. Give Odo a couple of days. He's still … you know. Adjusting. It's not the same for him, being a solid.”

Garak inclined his head. “I'm sure that's true,” he said. He had not thought about it, but that would certainly be a significant change. It would not be easy for Odo.

But he did not wish to discuss Odo at the moment. Or Quark's proposal, for that matter. At the moment, all he wanted was to increase the temperature, drink several glasses of _kanar_ , and lie down for a time unit or two before getting back to work.

_As soon as Quark leaves._

“You said you had a business proposal,” Garak said, trying to hide his growing impatience.

“Yes. You tell Constable Odo that he has to let you work. I offer my holosuite facilities to you as a work place – not during peak hours,” he added firmly. “You can set up a shop in there, and Odo can input all the guards and security features he wants. I'll charge Odo a discounted rate – enough to cover costs and a slight profit – and you'll give me twenty percent of everything you make from the work you do there. But first you make my clothing. I cannot go six months with only one outfit!”

Garak stared at him. That was actually quite a reasonable proposal. Of course it would be preferable to work in his own shop, but Garak doubted that would be permitted.

It wouldn't do to accept too easily, though.

“That is … an interesting idea,” he said. He rubbed his temple and closed his eyes, just for a moment. Quark already knew he had him at a disadvantage. Providing additional evidence of his current condition would make little difference. “I have a counter-proposal,” he said.

“Yes?” The avaricious gleam in Quark's eyes was firmly in place now.

“My … future temporary residence will be lacking in a number of amenities. Information, _kanar_ , a suitable temperature – ”

“I can provide information and _kanar_ , Garak, but I can't control the temperature.”

“True. But you can send one of your servers with an occasional cup of hot tea.”

The avaricious gleam faded, replaced for a moment by what could only be described as sympathy.

Garak tried to hide his irritation. He did not want sympathy, or pity. He just wanted _kanar_. Another dose of triptacederine would not be amiss, either.

“I suppose I can do that,” Quark said.

“Include those service I mentioned, and we have a deal, even at the otherwise inexcusably high commission you suggested. Ten percent of total profits is quite high.”

Quark shook his head, feigning annoyance at Garak's misstatement of his proposed rate. “All right, Garak. Fifteen percent, and we have a deal.”

“Thank you,” Garak said with a grateful bow. This proposal of Quark's just might allow him to survive the incarceration. If Quark's suggestion was successful, he wouldn't be trapped in the holding cell for six months; he would be trapped in it only until his next opportunity to get out and get to work.

Yes, he'd have to get back in again, which would not be easy. But it would provide a respite. 

It would not be ideal, but he could … tolerate it.

Perhaps.

Quark turned to leave, but he hesitated at the door. “Garak, take your time. I can get by a few more days with the clothes I've already got. You'd better get to work getting yourself better. Take a break.”

Garak raised his eye-ridges incredulously. “That advice does not sound Ferengi,” he commented.

A horrified expression crossed Quark's face. “Of course it does! It's completely Ferengi! You'll bring me no profit if you don't get better and can't work once you're in the holding … I mean, once you're in your new temporary residence,” Quark corrected quickly.

Garak chose not to mention Quark's very different reaction to Rom's recent ear infection, an easily treated condition that had almost been fatal when Quark forbid Rom from seeking medical care.

Apparently Quark had learned from that experience.

“I'm serious, Garak. Get some rest. You can get back to work in an hour or two.”

“Thank you for your advice,” Garak said, fully intending to accept it. He knew he didn't really have much choice.

Quark nodded and scurried out of the shop, presumably back to his own place of business.

Garak raised the temperature, locked the door, and retired to the back room for _kanar_ and rest.

* * *

Three glasses and thirty metrics of lying down despite the earliness of the hour and the quantity of outstanding work were perhaps pathetic, but were nonetheless successful at mitigating the headache enough to return to work. His focus was not as it should be, though, so he limited himself to the simplest of alterations.

By the time Doctor Bashir arrived at his door, an hour and a half later, he had finished the entire stack. The headache was unpleasant, but tolerable, and the ringing in his ears had not returned.

Bashir tapped lightly on the door.

Garak turned and feigned surprise. “One moment,” he said. He turned away from the window and placed the shirt he was holding carefully on the worktable. “Computer, reset temperature and humidity to their usual settings. Raise lights fifteen percent.” He turned back toward the door.

“Computer, unlock door.”

“A pleasure, my dear Doctor,” he said when Bashir stepped inside. “How was your morning?”

“Busy, but mostly uneventful. It was mostly routine checkups, and one engineer with a plasma burn.”

“Not serious, I hope?” Garak asked before Bashir had a chance to question him.

“Not really. Second degree, but it was limited to one hand, and easily treated.”

“Well. That is fortunate. An engineer would be less productive with only one useful hand.”

“That's true.” Bashir looked at Garak closely. “You look a little better. Are you feeling up for lunch?”

Garak hesitated. He was not hungry, and he did not wish to face the noisy crowds of the Replimat, let alone Quark's or the Klingon restaurant, but he knew he should eat something.

“We could eat here,” Bashir suggested.

Garak inclined his head. “Of course. Do give me a few minutes to clean up, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all. May I help?”

“That will not be necessary,” Garak replied, gesturing towards a chair near the workbench.

Bashir sat down, and Garak began clearing the workbench.

The Doctor was watching him, rocking slightly in the chair as if he wanted nothing more than to jump up and do Garak's work for him.

“I have not had the opportunity to obtain the news,” Garak offered, trying to distract him.

“Oh! I can tell you what I've heard.”

Garak inclined his head. “That would be appreciated.”

“All right. The wormhole was mostly quiet. A Ferengi trader and two Bolian traders arrived from the Gamma Quadrant. The Ferengi were bringing a shipment of tulaberry wine. I don't know about the Bolians, but Odo and Quark probably know. The Detapa Council and Central Command entered an agreement with each other and with Captain Sisko to allow Central Command to post two ships – a Galor-class war ship and a science vessel _–_ here, provided that Central Command shares its relevant data with the Council and with Sisko. The Captain has authorized shore leave for the ships' personnel on the station, but no one is here yet.”

Garak put the last few scraps of thread in the reclaimer and wiped the worktable clean. “That is understandable. No one requires shore leave after less than a day's work,” he pointed out. He did not particularly wish to encounter anyone from Central Command or the Detapa Council, but perhaps they would return to their ships before his incarceration began. If so, they would not be difficult to avoid.

He finished running the sweeper over the floor below the workbench and put away the device. “I do thank you for your patience, Doctor. I am ready.”


	22. Chapter 22

Julian followed Garak into the back room of his shop, watching him surreptitiously.

Garak was moving much more slowly and carefully than usual. Clearly, he was still in quite a lot of pain, and was just too stubborn to mention it.

Garak gestured courteously towards the table and chairs, obviously intending to serve as host.

Julian hesitated for only a moment. No need to start the meal with an argument.

He sat.

Garak busied himself taking out napkins – actual cloth, Julian noticed – and cutlery from a shelf behind the table.

Julian glanced at the other shelf. The meds container and hypospray he'd placed there earlier had been shifted slightly.

Garak had taken both medications, then.

Julian took two more of the analgesic tablets from his bag and put them in the meds container, which he set down on the table.

Garak glanced at the container, but did not comment or reach for it. “What can I get you, Doctor?” he asked instead.

Julian looked at him closely. Garak's pupils were no longer constricted, and he was not holding himself quite as tensely as he had been in the morning.

The combination of the smaller dose of triptacederine and the tablets had been effective, then. Not completely, but perhaps enough.

Good. Even if he were taking the triptacederine regularly now, which Julian suspected he was, he definitely did not have the same tolerance he'd had back when his implant failed.

He had not been taking it prior to his recent injuries.

“I assure you, my dear Doctor, I have not recently taken on a new career as laboratory specimen,” Garak hissed.

Belatedly, Julian noticed Garak was watching him with narrowed eyes and raised head.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I just … I just wanted to see if you were all right.” He sighed. “And I know you won't tell me if you're not.”

Garak visibly forced himself to relax. “I am … well enough.”

Julian looked at him, surprised at the apparent honesty. “Thank you, Garak. Would you care to sit down for a bit of lunch?”

Garak raised his eye-ridges and repeated his question from a few minutes ago, which Julian belatedly realized he hadn't answered.

“Tarkalean tea would be perfect, thank you.”

“Of course. And to eat?”

“I don't know what your replicator is programmed with, Garak.”

“Ah.” An odd expression flicked across Garak's face, too quickly for Julian to read it. “Well, it has _rokassa_ juice and Tarkalean tea, as you know. _Leyet_ juice and red leaf tea. _Gelat._ _Kanar_ ; not as good as even a mediocre vintage of the genuine beverage, unfortunately. Zabu stew. _Hasperat;_ a somewhat less spicy version than the original Bajoran dish. Salad. I believe several varieties are Terran in origin. _Aytlik_ soup. _Plomeek_ soup, should you prefer a Vulcan dish. A variety of foods, really. Oh, and a most delicious Terran dish highly recommended by Captain Sisko. Have you ever tried roasted beets, Doctor?”

Julian tried to hide his horror at the very idea. “Er, yes. I've tried beets before.”

“Not your favorite, I take it?” Garak asked. That odd expression flicked across his face again.

Julian wasn't entirely sure he was reading it right, but he guessed the expression indicated mischievous amusement. “No, it's not. As you very well know.”

Garak chuckled. “True,” he admitted.

Julian smiled. "I'll pass on the beets. Hasperat and _aytlik_ soup would be perfect.”

Garak inclined his head and turned to the replicator. He brought Julian his food and tea, and then brought his own meal: _aytlik_ soup and _kanar_.

Julian tried to hide his disgust. He disliked _kanar_ as it was, but the combination of _kanar_ and soup was truly revolting.

“ _Kanar_?” Garak offered politely. His amusement was visible only in his eyes this time.

“No, thank you. I'll pass,” Julian replied. “I've got to be back to work soon, you know.”

“As do I,” Garak replied, setting his food and drink on the table and carefully taking a seat.

Julian nodded. “Yes, of course, but it's a bit different for you. No one objects if a tailor has a glass of _kanar_ before work. They would object if their doctor consumed any alcohol before work.”

Garak nodded. He took a sip of his _kanar_ and grimaced.

“I thought you liked _kanar_ ,” Julian said.

“This hardly qualifies as _kanar_ ,” Garak said primly.

“Oh? And what, may I ask, did your replicator provide instead?”

“Exactly what it appears to be, Doctor. Replicated _kanar_.”

Julian laughed.

Garak tilted his head and looked at him.

“Sorry. It's just … I suppose I was expecting something different. A glass of Romulan ale or something.”

“Ah. No. Simply ersatz _kanar_. A true disappointment.”

“I'll have to remember not to try any.”

“A sensible choice.” Garak drank the rest of the _kanar_ and returned to the replicator for a glass of water.

“It's that bad?” Julian asked.

“The flavor is … less than ideal. The effect, however … well, that remains to be seen.”

“How bad is it?”

Garak raised his eye-ridges. “As I said, the flavor is less than ideal. I would not recommend that Quark offer this particular “vintage” to his customers.”

“I meant your headache, Garak.”

Garak turned his attention to his soup.

Julian followed his gaze and noticed Garak had barely touched it. “I know it's not “perfectly fine,” he said.

“How very observant of you.”

“Yes, well, I'm also observant enough to notice you haven't answered my question.”

Garak sighed. “It is … unpleasant.”

Julian glanced at the untouched meds container. “Why don't you take the medication, then?”

“I prefer _kanar_.” Garak glanced at the empty glass. “Perhaps I should make an exception for this particular variety.”

Julian nodded and took another bite of the _hasperat._ Garak was right. It wasn't as spicy as usual, but it was good.

He was pleased to notice Garak also turned his attention to his meal. He ate even slower than usual, but at least he was eating something.

Julian finished his meal and inclined his head in his best imitation of a Cardassian gesture of gratitude. “Thank you for the meal and the company, Garak,” he said.

He was surprised when Garak visibly winced. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“My apologies, Doctor. I am aware I am not … at my best as a conversationalist. I neglected to even mention our most recent reading, and – ”

“Garak, I was entirely serious. I didn't expect … I didn't _want_ extensive conversation. You're supposed to be resting, not coming up with irrefutable rebuttals to every single point I try to make.”

Garak smiled at that.

“There's nothing wrong with a quiet meal from time to time. And this meal, and the company, were quite … acceptable,” Julian said, attempting to imitate Garak's style of speech.

“Thank you, Doctor.” 

Julian rose and brought his dishes and glass to the reclaimer before Garak had a chance to take them from him. “I've got to get back to the infirmary,” he said. “Garak, I know you've got work to do, but I assure you you'll get more done, more quickly, if you allow yourself to rest. Take the medication, and lie down for an hour or two.”

Garak inclined his head. “I appreciate the advice,” he said, politely, if not entirely honestly.

 _But you have no intention of following it_ , Julian predicted. He sighed. “It's good advice,” he said. “Anyway, I've got to go. I'll stop by tomorrow morning.”

Garak offered a slight bow. “I look forward to your visit,” he said in a rather sarcastic tone. 

“As do I,” Julian said, echoing Garak's formal demeanor and ignoring the sarcasm.

He turned and left the shop.


	23. Chapter 23

Garak finished the final hem on the sleeve he'd just finished letting out, folded the shirt neatly, and added it to the stack of finished work. He looked at the stack of alterations he had yet to begin: three pairs of trousers to let out, the sleeves of two shirts to lengthen, a dress to take up and hem. Besides those, only the second of Odo's uniforms and Quark's wardrobe remained.

He could finish all but Quark's wardrobe the next day, perhaps, if he worked efficiently all day, which seemed unlikely. He should do more, before retiring for the evening. He should finish at least the last few alterations, but he was reaching his limit.

His headache was steadily worsening, despite the analgesic Doctor Bashir had left for him and the extra break he'd taken to drink a cup of red leaf tea and allow his hands to warm up. The previous day's nausea and the slight tremor in his hands had crept back as well.

Half a dose of triptacederine should be enough to let him continue working.

But he had none in his shop.

Perhaps he should take a short break. Catch up on the newscasts, Federation as well as Cardassian. Catch up on the station logs. Find out if any buildup of Jem'Hadar ships had been detected. Find out if the Klingons had escalated their incursions along the border.

Garak activated his computer terminal, entered his access code and verbal confirmation sequence, and activated the security failsafes.

The communications logs showed nothing relevant. Simply the expected communications between Federation and Bajoran personnel living in disparate locations.

Not a single communication with Cardassia.

Garak turned to the newsfeeds.

No mention of a Jem'Hadar incursion on a single newsfeed.

Garak could imagine what would happen when the first Jem'Hadar invasion fleet arrived. Its ships would be nearly uncountable. Endless waves of fighters and war ships, the wormhole flashing in and out of visibility.

Cardassia had to more to do in order to prepare. It had to produce and crew more ships, thousands more.

And how was Cardassia to do that? Even running all of Cardassia's mines at full capacity and repurposing its retired military equipment, Cardassia did not have the resources to build what it would need.

A pre-emptive strike was the only way.

But he had failed in his attempt.

Even Tain, with the might of the entire Obsidian Order and Tal Shiar behind him, had failed.

No one else was willing to try.

And there was nothing he could do. No one he could convince to take arms against the Founders. Well, perhaps he could convince people – but no one he could convince was in any position to do anything about it.

Nor was he. He could do nothing _now_ ; he could do less trapped in a holding cell.

He wouldn't even know until too late if a Jem'Hadar attack, or even a massive Klingon attack, was imminent.

A sharp lance of pain through his skull drew Garak's attention back to the present. His heart was racing as if he were back in the rubble on Tzenketh, and the room was starting to spin again. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.

It barely made a difference.

Triptacederine would be effective, but he had none in his shop. He wasn't entirely sure he could make it back to his quarters at the moment.

Well. The replicator could replicate kanar, such as it was.

He deactivated the terminal and staggered into the back room.

He ordered a glass from the replicator, sank into a chair, downed it quickly, and ordered another, and a third.

The spinning was getting faster.

All the colors whirled about, closing in on him like the walls.

Garak closed his eyes and waited for the _kanar_ to take effect.


	24. Chapter 24

Odo finished going over the day's crime reports. It did not take long, as there was very little to report. A slight altercation in Quark's bar. A theft of an engineer's padd that turned out to be a child forgetting to put it back in the proper location after borrowing it without permission. A noise complaint by a Ferengi when his new neighbor began playing her flute in her quarters – easily rectified by transferring the flautist, who had just arrived on the station and had barely begun to unpack, to different quarters, surrounded by neighbors with less sensitive hearing.

No pressing work remained.

Odo tugged irritably at the sleeve of his replicated uniform. It certainly appeared more appropriate than the blue pajamas Bashir had given him, but the sleeves chafed in a most irritating way, and the trousers were just a bit too long.

Odo hoped Garak would be well enough to work soon. Perhaps he could alter this uniform prior to making a new one.

It was also possible he'd found the time to finish a uniform or two early.

He checked the time. 19:37. It was somewhat late, but Garak did not always leave his shop at his usual closing time.

Odo locked his office door behind him and made his way down the Promenade, past the Klingon restaurant, closed for the night, and the always-open, but quiet at the moment, infirmary and Temple. Past Quark's, which was relatively quiet at the moment, except for the usual hum of conversation and the occasional shout of “Dabo!” from the gaming tables.

Garak's shop was closed, but lights were on inside the main room.

That was odd. If Garak were in the back room, he would have no reason to have the lights on in the front. The tailor was nothing if not meticulous about turning off unnecessary lights.

“Computer, what is the location of Garak?” he asked.

“Tailor Garak is in _Garak's_ _Clothiers_ ,” the computer stated.

“Computer. Override door lock.” Odo typed in his authorization code, and the door slid open.

The main room of the shop was empty except for Garak's worktable, several chairs, sewing equipment, displays of completed garments, and stacks of additional garments.

Garak was seated on the floor of the back room, leaning against the wall, an empty glass standing upright on the floor beside him.

He did not look up when Odo entered the room.

“Garak?”

No response.

Odo looked closer.

The tailor did not look well. His eyes were open, but he did not seem to be looking at anything in particular. His skin was unnaturally pale, and his breathing was rapid and unsteady.

“Garak!” Odo called, reaching out and touching his shoulder.

Garak flinched.

Odo moved his hand away and stepped back. “What's wrong?” he asked.

Garak blinked. He glanced at Odo and took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself.

Odo stepped back and turned away for a moment, giving him the space to do so while ostensibly looking about the premises.

He could hear Garak's rapid, labored breathing, but could no longer see him.

It was disconcerting. He was accustomed to constant visual awareness of all his surroundings. His new limitation to what was within the visual range of eyes was something that would take some getting used to, especially when he had his back to a person.

“My apologies,” Garak said after a long moment. His voice trembled slightly.

Odo turned around. The tailor didn't look much better, but he seemed to have regained control of his breathing, and his expression was alert.

“I … was not expecting anyone. I did not hear you come in,” Garak explained.

“My apologies. I did not see you, and your lights are on in the front room. Usually you have them off when you're not within the room. I was … concerned.”

Garak inclined his head. “Very observant of you, Constable.” He had almost gained control of his facial expression and body language, Odo noticed; he showed nothing but polite courtesy and a hint of tension about the eyes and jaw that suggested pain.

Garak pushed himself up and walked to the doorway, somewhat unsteadily, Odo noticed. “Computer, reduce lighting in the main room to 10 percent,” he said.

The lights dimmed.

Garak turned back to Odo. “Better?” he asked.

“Yes. And you?”

“And I … what, Constable?” Garak deflected, turning away and walking to the replicator.

“Are you all right?” Odo asked awkwardly. Garak was as private a person as he himself was, and he was quite certain the directness of the question would not be appreciated. However, it was his duty to ensure the safety and well-being of the residents of and visitors to the station.

“Yes,” Garak replied flatly.

A lie? A simple indication to not pursue the subject? Odo did not know.

“And how are you, Constable?” Garak spoke up. “It must be … unusual to have a solid's body.” He gestured courteously towards a chair and sank into another, sipping from the tea he'd requested from the replicator.

 _Unusual was quite a mild term. It was … disturbing. Disconcerting. Dismaying._ Odo sighed. “Yes. It is. I find there is much to learn and much to become accustomed to. It seems everything is different. My sensory perceptions, balance, center of gravity … and, of course, being trapped constantly in one unchanging form.”

Garak tilted his head. “That must be … disconcerting.”

“Rather. Fortunately, I have my work.”

“I see.” A fleeting expression Odo couldn't read flashed across Garak's face. “My apologies,” he said again. “I … seem to have forgotten your … you must eat and drink now. May I get you something, Constable?” he asked, already rising and making his way back to the replicator.

“No. Thank you. I have already eaten.”

Garak inclined his head and returned to his seat. “And your work? I imagine Quark has been providing a reliable distraction for you.”

Odo sighed. “Not really. Other than providing food and drink for the crew of a Khobeerian freighter engaged in smuggling Romulan ale and disruptor rifles, I haven't found any evidence that he has been involved in any violations of station regulations, let alone Bajoran or Federation law. And yourself? I assume your work is adequately distracting you from … things.”

A flicker of some sort of strong emotion flashed across Garak's face before he masked it with his usual calm, courteous mask. “Only while I am working, Constable,” the tailor admitted.

Odo inclined his head. “I understand.”

“I will get to your uniforms by early tomorrow,” Garak said apologetically. “The first is nearly complete. My … focus has not been what it should be.”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough. The replicated uniform is … adequate.”

“A properly sized uniform, however, will be more comfortable.”

“I suppose it will,” Odo said. He looked closely at the tailor. “However, one uniform will suffice for tomorrow. Shall I stop by tomorrow evening for it?”

Garak's courteous smile seemed forced. “Tomorrow evening would be fine, Constable. I will have both of your uniforms ready.”

“Forgive me, Garak, but you do not look well. One uniform will suffice for tomorrow,” Odo said again.

Garak inclined his head.

Odo thought he saw a flash of relief cross his face.

“Thank you, Constable. I … I will get started first thing in the morning.”

“Good. Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go see what Quark is up to.”

Garak smiled, a genuine smile this time.

“What?” Odo asked. He had observed nothing humorous.

 _“You_ look tired, Constable. The time is late. Perhaps you should follow your own advice.”

“I see,” Odo said. It was not yet time for his regeneration, but he was a solid now. He would have to accustom himself to a different cycle of rest, and to different sensations indicating the need for rest. He did not feel tired, but it was possible he simply did not yet recognize what “feeling tired” meant in his new form. “I shall return to my quarters shortly. Assuming nothing untoward is happening on the Promenade.”

“Of course. Good night, Constable.”

“Good night.” Odo left the shop and heard, but did not see, the door slide shut behind him.

He made his way toward the turbolifts.

Nothing untoward was happening on the Promenade.

Nothing at all was happening on the Promenade.

The shops would not open for several hours.

Odo sighed.

He might as well return to his quarters. He understood that he should be well rested, whatever that meant, prior to his next shift, but sleep was difficult. He was unaccustomed to lying on a bed. Unaccustomed to the unfamiliar sensations of the fabric of the bedding on his skin. Unaccustomed to having relatively inert skin, aware only of tactile input and temperature.

He was accustomed to the alertness afforded to a Changeling by his entire body having an awareness of sensation – visual, auditory, tactile, proprioceptive, balance, temperature.

Well. He was a solid now. He had no choice but to become accustomed to his new body and its limitations.

Odo returned to his quarters, attended to his new routine for hygiene, turned away from his now unnecessary bucket, and lay down on his new bed.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in this chapter comes from the episode Broken Link.

Garak rose early the next morning. To his dismay, the headache was still present, despite whatever remained of the full dose of triptacederine he'd taken the previous night to allow himself to sleep. It was not yet debilitating, but he knew it would worsen as the day progressed.

He had too much to do to allow a mere headache to impede him. He took another dose and sat, trying to relax, waiting for the medication to take effect. Then he rose and ordered a meal from the replicator. He was not particularly hungry, but he knew he would have to eat something if he were to get his work done timely.

He sat at the table and enjoyed a cup of _rokassa_ juice and a small plate of _hasperat_ and _leya_ fruit. It was an odd combination, perhaps, but surprisingly good.

Finished, he discarded the dishes, prepared himself for the day's work, and reset the temperature to an appropriate level for unoccupied quarters. He looked at his medical bag. He had taken too much triptacederine already, over the last few days.

He sighed. It was that, or accept the not insignificant risk of being unable to finish his work before his sentence began.

And this was the last day he could do so.

Garak took the hypospray and a new case of the drug from their compartment, inserted the hypospray and six vials into hidden pockets within his tunic, and replaced the panel.

“Computer, lights off.” He stepped outside, nodded a greeting to the security team stationed outside his door, and ensured that the door had locked behind him.

The habitat ring corridor was deserted; the turbolift empty; the Promenade nearly so. The few Bajorans who passed on their way to the Temple greeted the deputies warmly. Most ignored him. A few, mostly his own customers, greeted him as well.

He returned their greetings politely, without inviting any further conversation.

At the entrance to his shop, he unlocked the door and bowed to the security team. “I thank you for your company,” he said, allowing only a hint of sarcasm to show.

“Any time,” one of the deputies, Leshal, replied, matching his tone.

Garak ran the security check – no one inside, no visitors since he was last there – and stepped inside.

The room was almost as cold as the Promenade.

Garak reset the environmental controls to the usual setting at which he maintained the shop while he was working alone, with the shop closed.

But he had a lot of work to do, and not a lot of time in which to do it.

He reset the controls again, this time to what he would actually find comfortable.

Then he activated his padd and looked over the list of work.

Even allowing for the possibility of working from Quark's facility, he would be hard pressed to finish timely, even if he received no new orders during the time he opened the shop to his customers.

Well. He would start with Odo's uniform. It was not the next task, chronologically, but surely it was better to take the risk of a dissatisfied civilian customer than a dissatisfied station commander who could do worse than complain and stop patronizing his shop.

Captain Sisko had made his expectations quite clear.

 _And who will patronize my shop after it is closed for six months, and I am incarcerated?_ Garak had latinum enough for the next eight months, but if he could not work, his customers would move on, perhaps to another tailor, perhaps to replicated clothing.

Even if any customers remained, he wasn't entirely sure he would be capable of work so soon after his stay in the holding cell.

It had been weeks before he could function again after Tzenketh.

The holding cell would be better in a way – there would be air, there would be more room to move, he would know exactly when he could get out – but in a way, worse. At Tzenketh, at least for the first day or two, he'd been able to console himself with the hope of rescue.

In the holding cell, there would be none.

Six months was six months.

“You have work to do, Garak,” he said aloud. “Focus on your work.”

He took out the necessary supplies – a uniform several sizes too big for Odo that could be altered to fit, his sewing wand, thread. By the time he had everything, he had regained control of his breathing and the tremor in his hands had faded almost completely. Enough to prepare the garment for alteration.

By the time that was done, the tremor had faded entirely, and the room was comfortably warm.

Garak worked quickly, maintaining his entire focus on the garment and his sewing wand.

He diligently followed a routine he had set for himself to enhance efficiency: work for one time unit, sit down, rest for ten metrics, focusing solely on his breathing and on his chronometer, and return to work.

The routine seemed to help. He finished the alterations to Odo's uniform by 11:00, and made a good start on a shirt for Quark before taking a short break for _rokassa_ juice and _kanar_ while Bashir ate his lunch and told him about his research into diseases similar to the Teplan Blight he'd been working on. The triptacederine had long since worn off by that time, but the headache was not yet unbearable. The pills Bashir brought were sufficient to stave it off for long enough to finish the shirt, but he could feel it gradually intensify, and his focus wane, as he finished hemming the sleeves.

In only a few minutes, he would need to open his shop to allow his customers to begin picking up their garments.

In a few hours, Odo would arrive to pick up his uniform.

It would not be long before he would be locked in a cold, too-bright holding cell.

Garak forced himself to focus on his work. He finished Quark's shirt, took out the pattern, fabric, and thread for the trousers to go with it, and laid out the materials on his worktable.

He cut out the necessary parts and was about to take a short break before piecing them together when Captain Sisko arrived at the door.

Garak glanced at the chronometer; 15:35. He had time yet before Odo would come by for his uniform. He instructed the computer to unlock the door and drop the temperature by ten degrees.

“Please, come in, Captain. What an … unexpected surprise,” Garak said, feigning pleasure and allowing his genuine surprise to show. He had not expected the visit. He had no idea what the Captain wanted from him.

He was quite certain it would not be good.

At best, it would take time he should be using to complete what he could of his work. He knew he would not finish much more as it was.

“I'm sure it is,” Sisko said. His smile was cutting.

Garak held his place and kept his expression open and courteous.

“How are you?” the Captain asked.

“I have completed one of the Constable's uniforms,” Garak replied to what he suspected was the Captain's actual question.

“Good,” Sisko replied, peering around the shop and glancing at the fabric awaiting Garak on his worktable.

“This is for Quark. He also has need of a number of new garments.”

“I know. He spoke with me.”

“Did he.”

“According to Quark, you have not had the time to fashion the garments he commissioned from you after the recent unfortunate incident with the F.C.A.,” Sisko said.

“That is essentially correct,” Garak replied, glancing at the completed shirt and the pieces of the trousers, not yet pieced together.

“I understand you've completed a few garments. No doubt the ones Quark was wearing when he came to see me.”

“Yes.” Garak's answer was short. He waited impatiently for Sisko to tell him what he wanted … needed … to know.

Sisko watched him, silently.

 _He would make a skilled interrogator,_ Garak thought. He forced himself to meet Sisko's gaze, feigning mild curiosity.

“Mr. Quark has insisted that forbidding you to work would be tantamount to cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Has he?” Garak kept his tone light, as if it made no difference to him.

“He has offered the use of his holosuite facility between the hours for breakfast and lunch. Unfortunately, holosuites simply are not designed for disciplinary use.”

Garak did not look away. He forced his expression to remain neutral. Tried to ignore the steadily increasing pounding within his skull and the walls he felt certain were beginning to encroach.

“You will be allowed up to two hours to work in your shop, on alternate days, provided that Odo or Worf has staff available to accompany you. You may begin the day after tomorrow, provided that you honor all of the rules and restrictions inherent to incarceration.”

“I can hardly guarantee that, Captain!” Garak protested. “I am a simple tailor. A _Cardassian_ tailor, I must remind you. I am not well versed in the rules or restrictions of Bajoran or Federation prisons, let alone one with dual administration and jurisdiction.”

“Fair enough. However, I am quite certain Odo will be more than willing to provide you with the information you will need.”

Garak looked away. Glanced at the walls and ceiling.

Neither had moved at all.

“Garak?”

“Hmm?” he returned his attention to the captain.

Sisko scowled at him. “Do you intend to honor the rules with which Odo provides you?”

“Of course,” Garak lied. He intended to _listen_ to the rules, or perhaps read them over. He could not know if he would honor them without knowing what they were. But he wanted Sisko to finish and leave. He couldn't wait much longer for the medication.

“Are you all right?” Sisko asked with thinly disguised irritation.

The Captain was not unobservant.

It should have come as no surprise that he would notice Garak's increasingly unsuccessful attempts to mask his increasing agitation.

“Perfectly fine,” Garak said flatly.

“Glad to hear it. I will speak to Odo. He'll let you know what you need to know.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Garak said with a polite bow.

Sisko returned the gesture with a short nod, and left the shop.

“Computer, lock door.” Garak's voice was a bit unsteady, but not so much that the computer failed to understand.

The door locked.

Garak sank into the chair and sat, shaking, trying to get his breathing under control, checking and double checking the unmoving walls.

Gradually, his breathing steadied, and the shaking let up, except for a slight tremor in his hands. He stood and carefully made his way to the back room. He took the half-dose of triptacederine Bashir left for him at lunch, replicated a cup of _gelat_ , and sipped it, slowly.

By the time he finished his beverage and returned to the front room, the tremor had let up as well. Garak had the computer unlock the door, turn up the lights, illuminate the “Open” sign, and re-set the environmental controls to those at which he kept the shop during business hours. Finished with that, he returned to his worktable and got to work.

The sewing helped as much as the medication had, despite the necessity of pausing, from time to time, to interact with a customer, making small talk, providing them with their respective garments, accepting their thanks and their payments. By the time he finished Quark's trousers, he was almost calm, though the allotted time for Odo to arrive was rapidly approaching.

Garak put away his tools, cleaned up the scraps of fabric and thread, and got to work cleaning the shop.

Finished, he allowed himself a glass of _kanar_ , sat down, and waited.

* * *

Much too soon, Odo appeared in Garak's shop to pick up his completed uniform.

Garak picked up the garment and offered it to him.

The Constable took it, somewhat awkwardly.

 _Understandable._ _He has never bought clothing before._

“Constable, you may try it on in there,” Garak offered, with a sweeping gesture toward the changing rooms. “Let me know if there is anything you wish to have altered.”

Odo inclined his head just a bit too far. “Thank you, Garak,” he said with exaggerated courtesy.

Garak ignored the sarcasm. It was understandable for the Constable to be a bit … disconcerted and, thus, irritable, at the moment.

“How does it feel?” Garak asked when Odo stepped out of the changing room, neatly clad in his new uniform. “You comfortable? Not too tight?

“It's fine,” Odo replied flatly. “Though it does make me feel a bit...” he stopped, scratching absently at a sleeve.

“Itchy?” Garak suggested. “That's the Inkarian wool,” he went on without awaiting an answer. “You'll get used to it. Unless of course you're allergic to Inkarian wool.

“It's not the uniform,” Odo corrected. “I think I'm … hungry?

“You know, I envy you,” Garak said, though he did not envy the Constable in the least. “Think of all the wonderful foods you'll get to enjoy for the first time.”

“I can hardly wait.” Odo's voice dripped with sarcasm. A moment later, he smiled. “Well, you've done your job. Now I have to do mine,” he said, with disconcerting cheerfulness.

“Yes, I suppose you do.” The façade of calmness Garak had been clinging to vanished as he pictured the cramped space, bright lights, and total lack of privacy of the holding cells. The walls of his shop seemed to shift closer. “Six months in a holding cell, hmm?” he said, glancing at the walls and raised ceiling of his shop, making sure they hadn't begun to collapse since he'd last checked.

His voice was not quite as calm and unemotional as he was aiming for. “The thought is unattractive, to say the least,” he added, smiling.

“Well, if you ask me, Captain Sisko let you off lightly. Sabotage, assaulting a Federation officer, attempting to incite war between the Federation and the Dominion – ”

“Yes, but my heart was in the right place,” Garak said lightly, as if it didn't matter at all. As if he hadn't been desperate to stop the Dominion before it was too late.

Approaching footsteps ended that line of conversation.

He watched with interest as Chalan Aroya crossed the room to stand rather close to Constable Odo. Their interaction was most intriguing – a peculiar combination, or so it seemed, of flirtation and attempted comfort for Odo's recent loss.

“If there's anything at all I can do, just let me know,” Aroya was saying.

Odo watched her. He seemed confused, and perhaps a bit intrigued.

Aroya took her leave, and Odo watched her go.

“What a generous offer,” Garak said.

“Let's go, Garak,” Odo grumbled.

Garak pulled away from Odo's restraining arm. “Just a moment.” He picked up his bag and looked at the Constable, unsure for a moment how to phrase his question.

“You may bring a bag, so long as it contains no weapons or illicit substances. Personal items … _legal_ personal items … are acceptable,” Odo offered.

“It contains nothing illegal,” Garak said honestly. The vials were carefully secured within his tunic – undisturbed, as the half-dose Bashir brought him at lunch had sufficed.

“Very well. I will confirm your claim in my office.”

“That is acceptable.” Garak looked around his shop.

Ten holding cells would easily fit in the space. Twenty or thirty, were they stacked.

All would have garishly bright lights, no doubt kept on all day and night for the benefit of those who might be walking by.

The forcefield that took the place of a wall and a real door would allow people to look in on him at all hours of the day and night.

For six months.

There would be a bed, and room enough to pace, but not for more than a few strides in each direction before reaching a wall or forcefield.

The walls and ceiling of his shop seemed to shift closer. Garak took a breath and looked around at the unmoving walls, open space, and raised ceiling.

“Garak, let's go,” Odo repeated. This time, he sounded rather annoyed.

Garak sighed. “Very well. Computer, turn out lights and reset environmental settings to station default.” The computer indicated its compliance, and Garak stepped outside. Slowly, he shut the door, ensured that the locks were engaged, and activated the security system. He schooled his expression, as much as he could, into a calm, disinterested mask. Slowly, he turned to face the Promenade.

He would not have been surprised to see an enormous crowd of Bajorans and Starfleet personnel standing about, waiting to witness his humiliation. The Promenade was, indeed, crowded, but people seemed to be simply going about their business. Walking, pausing to look at something in a shop that caught their interest, talking with each other.

Nobody was watching him.

Odo gestured irritably, and Garak knew he couldn't postpone the inevitable much longer.

 _It is not so difficult, Garak. Simply do not think of where you are going_ , Garak told himself. He tried to focus on maintaining his mask, on pretending he was, as the Federation people said, “fine”. He took a step forwards, and another. In a moment, he was walking beside Odo, trying to ignore the crowd pressing in on him from almost all directions. Trying to ignore his racing heart, pounding head, the uncomfortable knot in his stomach. Trying to draw enough breath. He adjusted his tunic, pulling it a bit tighter as if to protect against the cold. As if the cold were the reason he was shaking.

“Garak! Do you require medical attention?” Odo asked.

“I'm perfectly fine,” Garak lied.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course." He would be fine. Of course he would. He just needed to sit down for a few metrics and _not_ think about being trapped in the holding cell.

Unfortunately, he could think of little else.

The Promenade and even the people seemed to fade into nothing but encroaching walls. Stone or metal or wood, he couldn't tell, but they were pressing too close. Making breathing a bit of a challenge.

“Wait here.”

Garak blinked. They were in Odo's office. They'd left the crowds behind.

“Very well,” he managed to say. He leaned against the wall, trying not to be obvious about doing so, and closed his eyes, clutching his bag and trying to catch his breath.

Closing his eyes didn't help. He could feel the walls closing in.

He opened his eyes and looked around.

The walls hadn't actually moved. _There is plenty of room, Garak,_ he told himself.

_In here, yes, but not in the holding cell._

Odo's office door was open. He could easily leave.

He would not be able to leave the holding cell so easily.

 _You're not in a holding cell!_ Thinking of that was no help at all. He would be, too soon.

Odo finished whatever he was doing much too quickly. He handed Garak a padd with the documents to review. Garak read them slowly, unnecessarily taking the time to silently translate every Bajoran sentence into Kardasi.

The first was simply a report of what happened, who was involved, and where and when it happened. It did not ascribe motive or judgment.

Garak affixed his thumbprint and moved on to the second document, which surprised him. It specified his sentence, including its duration, but the majority of the document was an itemization of all of the rights retained by the convicted. Oddly, it included the right to daily access to exercise facilities and to two hours per day, five days per week, supervised, of “useful work”, not otherwise specified. It included the right to “adequate quantities of nutritious foods”, though whether or not such food was to be palatable or digestible was not specified. It included the right to “reasonable accommodations”, which were also not specified. It did not specify appropriate environmental conditions such as light or temperature. Garak was tempted, for a moment, to protest, but decided against it. He would wait. Instead, he affixed his thumbprint.

“Thank you,” Odo said, taking the padd. He stepped through the door and gestured for Garak to follow.

Garak froze. He knew he had no choice but to obey. If he did not, whatever Sisko would come up with was sure to be even worse than his existing sentence. But he simply couldn't do it. He couldn't move at all, not even enough to breathe properly. _Of course you can,_ Tain's disgusted voice said in his mind. _A disciplined mind can tolerate anything. Certainly even you can tolerate stepping into such a spacious holding cell._

“Garak, let's go,” Odo said impatiently.

Garak put on a wide, mocking smile. “I would prefer not to,” he said, affecting sarcasm.

Odo gave him one of his most exasperated looks. “There is no reason to delay, Garak. You know your sentence. And you know I will do my job.”

“Yes. Of course you will,” Garak returned. “I imagine your job must be quite difficult, maintaining order on such a large station, as well as monitoring the incarceration of persons who have committed no crimes on this station. Perhaps you require a larger staff.”

“What I require is for you to leave my office and approach the holding cells,” Odo said with exaggerated, and entirely feigned, patience.

 _Ah._ Approach _the holding cell. That, he could do_ _._ “Very well.” Garak stepped through the door and stood beside the terminal, directly across from the central holding cell.

Odo began inputting the documents from the padd.

Garak found himself staring at the holding cell. It was small, brightly lit, and minimally furnished with two simple benches. It contained no computer terminal or access panel that might allow an enterprising individual to make their way out, so far as he could see. Nor did it contain any replicators to allow its denizens to obtain useful and interesting items. He could not ascertain the temperature within from his current location, but to judge from the chill already seeping through his jacket and the layers of thermal apparel beneath, and the simple fact that it was unlikely that Odo kept the holding cells significantly warmer than his own office and the other areas staffed by his security officers, it was likely to be, at best, unpleasantly cold.

The cell was currently occupied by three Bajorans, a Klingon, and a Human. Their attention seemed to be fully occupied by some sort of game involving the throwing of small fruits into a receptacle, which appeared to be someone's hat, inverted and carefully set in the middle of the floor.

Doubtless they were being held due to public intoxication, disorderly behavior, or the like. They would be kept overnight, and released once the alcohol wore off.

The other two cells were quiet at the moment. The one to the right of Odo's office was occupied by a tall Bajoran in an engineering uniform, wearing a beritrium earring very much like that worn by Major Kira. His displeasure, upon seeing Garak, was obvious. He held his silence, but his distrust and hatred were almost palpable.

The holding cell to the left appeared to be empty, though Garak knew that meant little. He could not see the entire cell from where he stood. However, he suspected it was this cell into which he would be placed.

What he could see of the cell was not at all appealing. It was small. Bright light filled every corner that he could see. There was no furniture other than a bench, which lay against the wall directly across from the Bajoran's cell, in full view.

There was no computer terminal to allow him access to information. He would be isolated. Trapped. Cut off from everything. He would not know what was happening on Cardassia; nor would he receive any news of what the Founders were planning. Cardassia could be completely destroyed, and he might not know for months, unless someone thought to inform him.

Garak knew Odo would not put him in with the intoxicated fruit-throwers or with the hostile Bajoran. He would be placed in the cell on the left; if it weren't empty, whomever was within would likely be moved to another cell.

The Bajoran engineer was still glaring at him. It was disconcerting. Garak had not been watched for so long, with such animosity, since the year Bajor and the Federation took control of Terok Nor.

The cell would be an unsuitable place in which to dwell for even a single night. Six months would be absolutely intolerable. Trapped inside small, cramped quarters. Isolated. No news from home. The temperature, far too cold. No opportunity to become warm. A hostile Bajoran, possibly a terrorist, watching him with incessant animosity. Essentially no privacy. Housed beside one group or another of loud, probably intoxicated individuals intent on making so much noise as to preclude any possibility of sleep.

Intolerable, indeed.

Well. Surely even Odo would consider such intolerable conditions unsuitable, regardless of the alleged crime one was said to have attempted.

He turned to Odo to protest, and then again stopped himself without saying a word.

The Founders he had tried to annihilate were Odo's people. Not, to be sure, people with whom the Constable had a true familial bond, or even one of friendship, but they were his people. Odo himself had admitted that there was a connection.

Odo had made it clear that he considered Garak's sentence too short. He believed Garak was getting off too easily.

He had shown no true anger, and he never had shown any desire for unwarranted cruelty. He would not strive to make Garak's incarceration as unbearable as possible. Yet his relationship with Quark made it clear that he was not above petty vindictiveness.

 _Better to wait,_ he decided. _Now is not the time to show weakness._ He could tolerate a holding cell. A disciplined mind can tolerate nearly anything.

But for how long?

Garak deliberately looked away from the holding cells and slowed his breathing, attempting to compose himself.

That was when he noticed that the noise level had dropped. Significantly.

He turned toward the holding cells. The fruit-throwers had evidently tired of their game, or perhaps they had finally realized his status. All five stood close enough that an outstretched hand would touch the forcefield.

The Bajorans and the Human stared at him with the animosity he would have expected from a group of former terrorists towards a Cardassian – _any_ Cardassian, no doubt – in their presence.

He could not read the Klingon's impassive expression.

Evidently, they had previously been unconcerned by his presence because their intoxicated minds had not realized he would be residing so close to their own dwelling, however temporary such dwelling might be.

Now, they knew.

“What've _you_ done, spoonhead?” one of the fruit-throwers asked, scowling. His words were so slurred with drink as to make his Bajoran almost incomprehensible.

Garak blinked. “Why, I have done many things,” he said with a polite, innocent smile. “My most recent work has been as a tailor on this very station. In fact, I have a shop on the Promenade. _Garak's Clothiers_. Perhaps you are familiar with my work?”

To his surprise, the hostility faded from the Bajoran's expression. “Yes,” he replied succinctly. “I apologize, Garak. I did not recognize you under the circumstances.”

“You were just asking a question,” Garak replied. “No apologies are necessary.”

“Jerel,” Odo called.

The Bajoran in the individual cell ceased glaring at Garak and looked at Odo.

“I am assigning you a new roommate,” Odo informed him.

The Bajoran's surly expression flickered for a moment, replaced by a distinctively nervous look as he glanced at Garak.

Garak struggled to mask his own discomfited reaction to the unpleasant news. Judging by Odo's smirk, he was not entirely successful.

It was the Bajoran to whom Odo spoke. “No, not Garak. Biran Menayl. Menayl!” he called, when no-one responded.

A young Bajoran man stepped into view in the otherwise empty holding cell across from Jerel. He was clad in the red and brown uniform of the Militia, and he too wore a beritrium earring.

“Menayl. You've been reassigned to Holding Cell 3,” Odo spoke up. “You will share quarters with Jerel.”

The young Bajoran nodded, but said nothing.

Odo pressed a few controls on his console. The forcefield on the cell to the left, apparently designated Holding Cell 1, lit up and sizzled out.

It was easy to see exactly when Menayl saw Garak and understood what was going on; the man's confused look faded, his face twisted into a furious glare, and he charged.

Startled, Garak jumped aside, his arms raised defensively.

The Bajoran did not respond quickly enough; he overshot his target.

Garak caught himself and quickly schooled his posture and expression into offended shock – but he was careful not to look away from the young Bajoran. Not for a moment.

Odo stepped between them, his hand raised. “Odo to Security Team A. Report to my office,” he said through a com link Garak hadn't seen him open.

The young Bajoran glared at the Constable but he did not charge again. He turned back to Garak and yelled something almost completely incomprehensible; Garak caught only the Bajoran word for Cardassian.

 _Interesting,_ Garak thought. Surreptitiously, he switched on the universal translator embedded in the collar of his tunic, in the guise of adjusting the fabric to a more comfortable position. “I beg your pardon?” he asked politely.

The Bajoran's response was equally incomprehensible through the Universal Translator.

 _“I do beg your pardon,”_ Garak said in Kardasi, affecting genuine concern and offering a placating smile. _“My Universal Translator does not seem to be programmed with your language.”_ It had had no problem with the man's word for Garak's people; presumably that word was the same in several Bajoran dialects.

“You lie, Tailor,” Jerel spoke up in the Dakhuri Bajoran dialect Garak knew well, as it was the primary Bajoran language spoken on Terok Nor and on its current incarnation as Deep Space Nine. “You understand Bajoran. You have spoken it for years.”

Garak sighed. “I speak and understand your dialect,” he acknowledged, speaking this time in Dakhuri Bajoran. “His dialect, I neither speak nor understand.”

To his surprise, the engineer gave a slight nod. “He is speaking in the Glyrhondi dialect,” he said in Dakhuri. “It is a common enough language on Bajor, but it is not as common here on the station.” The man turned and said something to Menayl.

To Garak's surprise, the younger man simply nodded. “Dakhuri I speak, not well,” he said. “I will try.”

“How very considerate of you,” Garak said.

Menayl's face again twisted into fury, but this time he did not attack. He glanced briefly at Odo, and then stepped toward Garak. Not bothering to use a mutually comprehensible language, he let loose a barrage of angry Glyrhondi.

Amidst the incomprehensible sounds, Garak caught an anti-Cardassian slur popular on Terok Nor before its transfer to Bajoran ownership.

“Constable, I must protest!” he exclaimed, feigning exaggerated offense. “You cannot expect me to live for six months in such obviously unsuitable surroundings, accosted by such … blatant hostility!”

“Oh?” Odo asked, his tone and the tilt of his head evidencing both sarcasm and disdainful mocking curiosity. “Am I to understand that you expect your incarceration to take place in comfortable and luxurious surroundings filled with beautiful music and poetry?”

“Certainly not, but I would not expect it to be fraught with such animosity!” Which was true, but merely because he'd given essentially no thought to other prisoners; only to the confinement.

“I … see. You expect a citizen of a formerly occupied world to treat a citizen of the nation which formerly occupied his world with … _courtesy.”_

Garak feigned surprise. “Odo, surely you understand the benefit of my people and the Bajoran people leaving such unpleasantness behind? Especially amongst individuals such as myself who played no direct role in the so-called Occupation. I am quite certain my work as tailor for those citizens of both Cardassia and Bajor stationed here on Terok Nor does not merit such animosity. After all, neither ill-fitting uniforms nor badly mended trousers would have effected any change in Cardassian or Bajoran policy.”

“No. It would be one of your many undisclosed other roles that leaves you deserving of such treatment.”

“Other roles, Constable? Are you referring to my role as a member of the Merchant's Association?” Garak asked. “Or perhaps my role as sometime patron and customer of various establishments here on the Promenade?”

The door to Odo's office opened, and Leshal and a female deputy whose name Garak didn't know stepped through.

Odo nodded politely to them, doubtless in response to their prompt arrival, and succinctly explained the situation. “Drop the forcefield in Cell 3,” he ordered.

The female deputy took position outside the cell, her phaser raised. Leshal typed a few commands into the console, and the forcefield sizzled out.

Odo led Menayl to the cell and released him, none too gently, near the back of the cell. He quickly stepped out, and the officer at the console reinstated the forcefield.

“Thank you,” Odo said with a polite nod at his officers, and then a subtle gesture toward the corridor.

The officers nodded and stepped out of the room.

Odo turned to Garak. “All right, Garak. You've had your fun. Now it's time to begin your sentence.” He gestured toward the now-empty Holding Cell 1 with exaggerated courtesy.

Garak sighed. He looked at the holding cell. It was no more appealing than it had been before, yet the distraction of the skirmish and the ensuing interaction had served admirably. He _could_ go in. He must, lest Odo or, worse, the Bajorans, recognize his weakness.

He picked up his bag and stepped inside. It was, as expected, no warmer inside the cell. The light was just as painfully bright. The residual odor of cleaning materials was strong and somewhat nauseating. The bench lacked any bedding; there were no blankets. The cell was, however, clean. Garak set his bag down beside the bench and returned his attention to Odo. “Splendid accommodations, Constable. I must commend you.”

Odo snorted. “The accommodations are not intended to be pleasant, Garak. They are intended to protect innocent people from the nefarious actions of people like you.”

“People like me?” Garak repeated, not masking his surprise. “A racial slur, Constable? I expected better from you.”

“Criminality does not have a race, Garak. It is hardly limited to Cardassians. Your criminal actions on the Defiant were _your_ actions, not _Cardassian_ actions.”

“Ah. I understand.” _The Constable does have cause to resent your actions, Garak. The Founders are his people, estranged or otherwise. It would behoove you to remember that._ “Yes, from your perspective I can see why my actions may have seemed … unfortunate.”

Odo tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Indeed. However, I can understand why you would be … upset by the words of the Founder.”

“The words? I am not upset by the _words,”_ Garak hissed.

“Oh?”

Garak scowled. Loath as he was to admit to any weakness, he knew it would be futile at this point to deny his admittedly sentimental and emotional response to the Founder's threat. “I am upset because of what they did, and because of what they are planning to do.”

“You do not know what they did,” Odo said, somewhat defensively.

 _Interesting,_ Garak thought. He would not have suspected Odo would feel guilt for the actions of the Founders. He was hardly responsible for what they did. Surely he knew that.

“You claimed she said _you_ are dead,” Odo continued. “Obviously, you are not.”

“Perhaps she was speaking metaphorically,” Garak acknowledged. “However, metaphorical or not, her threat was sincere. Either the Dominion is planning to destroy Cardassia, or they are planning to inflict whatever damage they can when the opportunity presents itself.”

“As your people will toward them,” Odo pointed out.

Garak inclined his head. “True. However, I intend _you_ no harm, Odo.”

“I am gratified to hear it,” Odo said sarcastically, looking pointedly around the cell which would, of course, quite effectively prevent Garak from doing anything to harm Odo, even if he had wished to do so.

Odo excused himself with a courteous nod, activated the forcefield, and returned to his office.

Garak watched him go.


	26. Chapter 26

Once Odo was out of sight, Garak examined his new quarters. He was careful to do nothing to cause Odo or his deputies any alarm; Odo being out of his sight by no means indicated that he was out of sight of anyone observing a security monitor fed by a surveillance device within the cell.

He did not examine the walls closely for accessible panels. He left his tricorder and padd safely stowed within his bag, somewhat surprised Odo had confiscated neither during his cursory exam of the bag. He had not even removed Garak's digital reader.

Garak limited his examination of the cell to a cursory visual examination. The cell was essentially empty except for the single bench, devoid of any bedding, and a storage chest. The other cells did not have storage chests. Garak assumed it had been brought in as an accommodation for the cell's current intended use for long-term housing. The cell did have an adjacent hygiene chamber, with minimal facilities: toilet, sonic hand washing station, sonic shower, a small shelf for the storage of toiletries and small personal items.

It had no visible means of providing extra heat, a bath, or a water shower.

There was nothing else to be seen. Garak opened the storage chest. There was a blanket inside. It was made of a dreadful synthetic cloth in garish colors, and it was not particularly thick, but it would be better than no blanket.

Garak left the blanket where it was, placed his bag inside the chest, and got to work on his plan to get out of the cell as soon as possible, even if only for a few hours at a time, and to make the cell just a bit more tolerable.

It was possible – not likely, he was sure, but possible – that his sentence would be reduced. More than one of Julian's stories mentioned people being let out of prison early 'for good behavior'.

The sooner he was out, the sooner he could get back to work – on his own terms, not just when his keepers allowed it. And, the sooner he could avail himself of the vast quantities of information available on the station for anyone who took the time to seek it out.

The sooner he could, just maybe, find some way to help Cardassia.

Unless he got out of the cell, there was nothing he could do.

The best option he had now was to follow Quark's suggestion, and, after a few days, request time to work.

He did not know if Odo, or Sisko, or whoever was making the decisions about his sentence, would agree, but he knew they certainly would not unless they trusted him.

The best way Garak knew to gain the trust of any sort of security person was to follow all of their rules.

Be polite.

Do not try to escape.

Do nothing to draw attention to oneself.

Be as uninteresting and as non-threatening as possible – which would have the dual added benefits of potentially relaxing surveillance and, perhaps, somewhat mitigating his headache.

Garak took out the blanket and wrapped it around himself, sat on the bench, closed his eyes, and waited.

He knew he might have a very long wait.


End file.
